Just Another Day at the Office
by browneyesonly4
Summary: When a family death strikes Tony, who else would understand more about loss than Ziva? Friendship, tension, comfort, and suspense are to follow. Tiva. Rated M just in case. UPDATE: Chp. 25, some bad language. Warning: Graphic Mention of Rape.
1. Watching the World Go By

"Good morning!" Tim murmurs, setting a coffee on Tony's desk. I smirk to myself as Tony grimaces. _Someone_ has a hangover…

"Really, McGee? What is so good about it?" I gloat. "Obviously, Tony would not be in such a good mood if it were not so, correct?" Tim chuckles, tapping the keys of his ... brand new laptop? "Did you get a raise, McGee?"

"Huh?" I gesture toward his new technology. "Oh, this? No, I've been saving up for a while. I finally realized that although a typewriter is better suited for my free-writing, the repairs to the platform that someone," he explains, shooting a dirty look toward DiNozzo, "broke would just be unpractical in a financial sense." Grinning, he adds, "So, I bought myself this baby."

"Well," I state, pleased, "that is wonderful, McGee. You should be proud of yourself."

"Davíd, could you take it down a notch?" DiNozzo squeezes the air with his thumb and forefinger as an estimation. "Just a little. Yeah. Thanks."

"Oh, I am _sorry_, Tony. I had no idea I was talking loudly." I grin smugly at his glower. However, there is something about his state that makes me feel sorry for him. I murmur, "Oh, DiNozzo … you look pathetic." An inexplicable urge to go over and sit by him overwhelms me, but I stay where I am as the elevator dings.

As Gibbs makes his way through the office, he slaps the hung-over man's back and mutters, "Well, he'd better get over it soon because we have to go gather info, and I need all three of my field agents." Excitement surges through my body. "Yes, Davíd, this includes you."

"Ah-hah! Excellent." I grab my duffel bag from beneath my desk and start for the elevator with McGee. I notice, however, that DiNozzo isn't following and turn around to retrieve him. I refuse to take punishment for someone else's problem.

While I'm watching him, I can see his eyes welling up with tears. I perch myself on the edge of his desk, but say nothing. Tony grabs his bag and makes to get up, but I stop him with my hand on his chest. "What is wrong, Tony?"

"You wouldn't understand, nor would you care to know," he snaps. This is purely not the case. For some reason, I cannot seem to let go of this curiosity, this false hope about us that I have.

"Try me." He tries to dodge around me but I jump in front of him. "Come on, Tony. You saved me from North African terrorists; I would assume you would be able to trust me by now."

"I do trust you."

"Oh?" I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Then tell me what is wrong." Squaring his shoulders, DiNozzo turns and stares into my eyes. There is a piece of him missing, a piece that always has been missing, but the void is larger now. Where his eyes are normally crystalline blue, like the cerulean seas of the Caribbean, they are deeper, darker ... more like the stormy tides of the ocean. To be honest, they are a bit frightening to look at. However, I endure, determined to draw out of him what I want to know. To show him that I want to know. That I have to know ...

"My father died."

"Oh …" I gasp, taken aback. "I am sorry to hear that, Tony." Fighting the urge to reach out to him, I sit on my hands.

He nods and hangs his head. "It was just a few days ago. I'm not hung-over; I just miss him."

"And you did not tell me?" He gives a noncommittal grunt. "I see." Straightening my shirt, I search for words but find nothing other than, "It is a sad experience to lose a family member." I cannot help but think, _But at least you did not kill yours. _"When is the funeral?"_  
_  
Tony stares at me with watery eyes, blinking furiously, as though the rapidness will whisk them away. "He was cremated. Didn't want a service. We're having a small gathering to spread his ashes in a few days." After a small pause, he mumbles, "You aren't going to say anything?" Though his features are stony, there is a hint of shock in his slack jaw.

Out of compassion, I offer a soft smile. "How do you mean, Tony?"

"No snide comments? No mockery about my crying?" I shake my head, aghast. "Oh. Why not?"

I ponder this for a moment before bowing my head and murmuring, "You did not mock me when I was bound and beaten in Somalia, nor did you when Ari was ... executed." Dropping my voice, I continue, "I did not feel that such behaviour would be appropriate in such circumstances."

"Well ... I appreciate it." Tony shifts in his chair and mutters, "Thanks, Ziva."

"Anytime, Tony." _Anytime_.

* * *

"Time of death, Duck?" Gibbs steps around the Scottish man and stares down at the body. While they discuss the corpse, I watch from a distance and he takes a fake sip of coffee. No one else in the building realizes, other than Tony, but Gibbs has rarely drunk an entire cup of coffee in a single day. He pretends to. It only adds to the mystery of his character, and I am the only one who knows the true story. I laugh to myself and take a picture of blood spattered across the cement wall.

Tony sidesteps away from McGee, who is knelt collecting a sample of ... I wrinkle my nose. Either the victim could not control his bathroom habits, or the murderer could not. We will find out eventually, either way. "Yech, that's a great job, Tim," he praises softly, causing McGee to look up at me in confusion. The lack of "pet" names is uncharacteristic of Tony, and everyone knows now that something is not right. But no one knows what.

He sidles up next to me. "So, how's the picture taking, Z-Davíd?"  
I nod. "Obviously, Lance Corporal Jackson has gone through a lot in the past few days." Taking a closer look at the brain matter, I look between Jackson's body and the wall. "For some reason, I think that the crime scene has been manipulated."

"Why?"

"Well," I take a step away to analyze the situation, "If he were, say, kneeling-"

"Squatting, actually," McGee pipes in. I shoot him a firm look and he flushes, standing and stowing the sample jar in the trunk.

"-If Jackson were 'squatting,' then, the angle of the shot would not have created this fan of blood spatter." Squinting, I try to imagine what happened. "Now that just means that the ..." Crinkling my nose, I can barely bring myself to speak of it.

Tony chuckles and offers, "Waste?"

"Yes, thank you. It is not Jackson's. It is someone else's. Unless he was not kneeli-squatting when he died. And he obviously was." I look up and place both hands on my hips. Each investigator is watching me intently. "What?" Gibbs smirks but says nothing, takes another fake sip of coffee, and walks away. I stare at Tony expectantly but he remains silent. Frustrated, I repeat myself.

"Do you ... listen to yourself when you're talking?" He stumbles on the words, as though he is trying to say them kindly. I shake my head, cocking it to one side. "Oh. Well, that explains it, then."

"What explains what?" I stow the camera in the van and turn to find him right in front of him. For some reason, I find myself breathless.

"What?" Again his eyes are deep blue, and I can tell his confusion is not from me, but from the distraction his mother's death is causing.

"Well, that is what I was asking you."

"What's that?"

"Tony, honestly," I sigh in exasperation. I walk away.

Before I'm out of earshot, I can hear him call after me, "What did I say?"

* * *

The bullpen is silent when the elevator doors open. No beeping from the computers, no buzzing from fans, and, more noticeably, no Anthony DiNozzo. In fact, none of my fellow agents are at their desks. I tense, instincts kicking in, assuming that we are under attack. It is a preposterous assumption, but it is all I know.

As I make to pull my gun, I hear footsteps stop behind me.

"Please don't shoot me. That's the last thing I need." Tony. My breathing slows and I relax. He walks around me, a breakfast sandwich in one hand and a Styrofoam container of four coffees in the other. "What's got you so tense this morning?"

Maybe it's the fact that I am blushing like a little love-struck school girl whenever he is around, and I cannot fathom as to why.

"Where are the others? Gibbs, and McGee, that is." I tuck a chocolate brown curl behind my ear. "It is quiet without them."

Tony shrugs. "Well, I think Gibbs had a date last night. And McGee's got an intervi—No, that's not right." He shakes his head and starts again. "McGee had a date last night and Gibbs..." Trailing off, he shoves the coffees into my free hand. "Still not right, but it'll have to do." After taking a rather large bite of his breakfast sandwich, he shrugs and paces toward his desk.

"So, you do not know where they are?" I quickly follow him, stabilizing the coffees with my other hand and nearly dropping my satchel. "You are not the least bit-"

"Put the coffees down and come up to M-TAC." Gibbs' voice travels down the stairs from the floor above us. Tony and I exchange glances and race toward him. Something is seriously wrong if he is calling us up to the Multiple Threat Alert Center...

When we arrive at the door, Gibbs greets us with a stony gaze. "We've got guests today." I look past him into the meeting room. There stand a group of four; two men and two women. The men wearing suits, and the women in office attire, they are huddled beside a computer on the far side of the room, solemn.

"Who are they?" A pause ensues, and I look to Gibbs' face for an answer.

He turns away, wordless, appearing more frustrated than angry. I furrow my brow, hoping for him to explain, but he turns and walks toward the giant screen. Tony squeezes past me and trails Gibbs, equally as serious.

"Tony," I whisper, taking a few swift steps to catch up to him, "who would be visiting us?"

"Not who, _what_." He grins at me.

Confused, I inquire, "A what? As in, some sort of mission?" As we enter the room, he looks around, noting the women. His eyes land on one of them, who is speaking with Gibbs.

"Maybe. Ooh, and that girl is _smokin'_. Be right back. DiNozzo's on the prowl." He winks at me and my heart, for some reason, flutters as he walks away. As I take in his words, my stomach drops. He passes Gibbs and McGee, taking his time with looking the girl over, blatantly gauging her backside, chest, and legs. He stands beside another computer, staring at her.

I try to repress my jealousy as I make my way over to the three, who are discussing interrogation tactics with one of the women. Gibbs looks down at me, his expression fatherly, and says, "Excuse me for interrupting, Miss O'Ryan, but you haven't met an integral part of our team; Jennifer O'Ryan, meet Ziva David." Jennifer smiles and I immediately feel inadequate. She has sparkling brown eyes, while mine are normally dull, framed with the longest eyelashes I have seen since I can ever remember. She is taller than I, by a good four inches, and has thick, chestnut brown waves of hair cascading over her left shoulder. Her teeth are perfect, a shade of ivory so beautiful that for a moment I am stunned.

I spot Tony still staring from his place beside another man ... a very handsome man. I tear my eyes away, however, and glance back at my colleague, who is batting eyes at Jennifer. I give her another swift overview; she has a slender waist and rather perky breasts. And her hips give her a subtle hourglass shape that is approved by almost all males. Her legs, though covered by a knee-length, twill skirt, are obviously toned. I can see that Tony appreciates her body. Mine? I have nothing to offer him.

Shaking my head of the thoughts, of which I do not know the origin, I turn my attention back to Gibbs' introduction.

"Hello, nice to meet you," I smile. Holding out my hand, I wait for her to take it.

"Pleasure." Jennifer grasps my hand firmly, her thumb and fingers long and nimble. She obviously plays piano, or some sort of instrument. Perhaps saxophone. While her grin, spread across her face, may be intended to display a welcoming temperament, I sense a darkness to her that I am concerned by. There is something that she is hiding.

"Miss O'Ryan is from the CIA, and was sent here to assist us with undercover work," Gibbs informs me. I had thought I was the lead undercover agent. I try to rein in my disappointment, but I cannot help but feel unappreciated, until he adds,"Her director has decided that he wants her to prepare you and Tony one-on-one for your mission." My ears perk up, knowing I am needed. "You leave in a week, after your class."

I blink twice, puzzled. "My ... class, Gibbs?" He nods, winks at me, and again walks away, taking a sip of coffee. Shaking my head, I look up at Jennifer. "Class?"

"Yeah," she smiles, "You have some." She too walks away, leaving me to work out my confusion alone.

* * *

Jennifer being from the CIA, of course I could have expected an undercover mission to ensue. However, the information I was presented with after being dragged toward Director Vance's office for my pre-mission de-briefing was a shock.

There had been four cargo ships, other than the Damocles, attacked over the past twelve months. Only the Damocles had been reported; the other three were kept quiet by the United Nations. Vance had agreed for Jennifer and her colleagues to come to NCIS to brief us on the circumstances, and then Tony and I were to go shopping for our trip to Upstate New York. Apparently, the suspects were farmers living in a rural area that so happens to have a Navy recruiting base a short distance away.

Also, below a nearby lake, is a Naval testing base. From the pre-mission debriefing, we could gather that the case revolves around two missing sailors and a marine, all of which were from the area and are good friends. They had grown up together and of course knew their surroundings. Their leave-times had coincided and they had decided to go out for "one last hoorah," as Tony had put it. Their wives reported them missing the next day when they failed to return home to them.

Jennifer would portray my cousin, while Tony and I would be a newly wedded couple. Much to my dismay, I would be pregnant with his child. Our names would be "Ana Colette and David Melvin Stadelvard". Just Tony's grimace at his middle name had been enough to make this mission worth it.

As newlyweds, the point of our trip to Canandaigua was to buy a house, a house large enough to build a good sized family. The CIA had been informed of an old farm in the middle of nowhere that had a large house and two barns—plus hundreds of acres of land—for sale. The only fishy part was that the entire farm was for sale, including ten chickens, a medium-sized herd of cows, two horses, two sheep, and barn cats. The family that had previously occupied the farm appeared to have just up and left, and the realtors were looking for prospective buyers who would keep the animals.

Robert "Buck" Andrews was the twenty-two year old farmhand, and had grown up about two miles down the road at another farm. To those in the community that Jennifer had already talked to, Buck seemed "sketchy" and "weird." Or, as one woman put it, "That man has nothing but a whole load of hell up his sleeves." It would be the mission of Tony and me to keep a close eye on Buck and find out if he had had any part in the disappearance of the seamen and Marine.

The families of these three servicemen were well aware that, because they had been missing for so long, the chances of their fathers and husbands surviving were slim. However, the men's wives were told that as NCIS, it was the duty of the agency to find them, dead or alive, and each woman was enthusiastic about the idea, even if it did mean one of them would come home not breathing.

Sitting at my desk, my mind is swirling. Although I have all of my information-my character's details, a credit card for a new wardrobe, the plans, and two tickets to Rochester-I feel uneasy. For some reason, there is something not right about Jennifer. I am an excellent judge of character, so I know that my preconceived notions about her are correct, but I cannot fathom as to what that "not right' thing is.

_Yahweh...Father...send me a sign..._

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I feel two hands place themselves on my shoulders. They are large hands, strong but gentle. Two thumbs begin working kinks out of my shoulders while fingers massage my worries away. A husky voice, in my ear, whispers, "It'll be okay, Ziva." The voice is familiar; I've heard it somewhere before. My heart begins beating rapidly, a flush rising deep in my cheeks. "Everything will be okay."

"Michael?" But he is...It can't possibly be...

"Uhm, no, way to kill a mood." The massage stops and footsteps walk to a space across from me, about twenty feet away.

My eyes pop open. "Tony!" A hand flies to my forehead and smoothes the baby hairs at my hairline. "I'm s-sorry."

He laughs. "No, no, it is I that am sorry." I cock my head. "Sorry that you thought I was Rivkin." My eyes narrow, but I remain wordless. "Bad memories, Ziva."

"Bad for me for obvious reasons," I snap. "Why for you, as well?" He is silent for a moment, thinking. I can remember those days as though they happened last week, although it has been nearly two years since his death.

The sight of him, blood pouring out of his heart, but not a thing I could do about it. Tony, standing there with bloodthirsty eyes, malice held in his hands. The gun. The plea for life floating in Michael's fading eyes. His last breath. I choke back tears, focusing again on the present.

"I was scared, he tried to kill me, I retaliated." His answer hides his true feelings.

"Tony, you killed the man that I-You killed Michael in cold blood. Even though you knew how I felt about him, and how he felt about me, you-" Tony stands, cutting me off.

"Actually, Ziva, he was using you, kinda like your dad was. Actually, no, he wasn't just using you. He was helping your father, plotting your demise." He pauses, to let his words sink in. I blink several more times in a last-dash attempt at maintaining my composure. "Yeah," Tony continues, "I think that maybe, considering the circumstances, I did you a bit of a favor."

"That does not change the fact that _you_ followed Michael to _my_ apartment and proceeded to kill him on _my_ living room floor, DiNozzo." I jump to my feet and grab my cell phone from my desk and my jacket off of my chair. "I understand that you are hurting right now, but you have no right to blame any of this on me, or make petty arguments in your favour in a situation you could have resisted." With that, I whisk out the door, before I have to see the heartbroken face of a man who has just lost his father.

* * *

_A/N: Hey, guys. I just wanted to put it out there that, yeah, Ziva's got a crush on Tony. Big deal. We can see it in the series; the writers aren't doing much to hide it. I'm not saying that it is or isn't going to lead to anything. No one can possibly know that except for the actors and the writers/producers/directors/etc. However, I'm a huge Tiva shipper. If this bothers you, please don't read this. Furthermore, my version of Ziva is more realistic than the hardened, unfeeling Ziva I've seen in other fictions. **Obviously** I do not mean any offense; our ideas of Ziva are just different. I just feel that Ziva is really a girl deep down, and she's got the same thoughts as all of the rest of us girls do :). _


	2. Where Do I Begin?

_A/N: Ah, now I remember what I was going to say at the end of the last chapter. As Ziva is a girl, I felt that I should include realistic fears and insecurities. She is so used to being an object, a weapon, and is now falling into the characteristic female phenomena of self consciousness, especially around Tony. I mean, who **wouldn't** be a bit self conscious around him? ;) Anyway, enjoy! xx_

* * *

Days pass, and Jennifer and I are still preparing for our mission. Tim and Gibbs are monitoring the circumstances of the opposition very closely, with the help of Director Vance. As far as Tony and I are concerned, we are both taking classes at the local Cooperative Extension building. My partner is less than pleased. Learning how to 'muck out' stalls, take care of farm animals, and plant crops are tedious activities and we are both itching for the hands-on learning that we know we will not experience until the mission itself.

On a day free of classes, Jennifer and I had scheduled a lunch, meant to get to know each other better. I could tell that she was anxious to meet me and, much to my dismay, I was just as anxious to know her better.

Sitting at lunch and hearing Jennifer ramble on endlessly about Tony has grown annoying, but, fortunately for both Jennifer and me, my patience has not worn too thin.

"So, tell me," Jennifer murmurs, chewing a large piece of romaine, "How's Special Agent DiNozzo in the whole 'pop culture' scene?" I chuckle. "What?"

I consider this for a moment. "Well, he quotes movies almost all the time."

"Oh yeah? What kind of movies?" She takes a small sip of iced tea and stares at me, as though she is attempting to read me.

"Every kind of movie known to man, around the world." I chuckle and raise a spoonful of soup to my lips. "He is team Edward."

Jennifer's eyes flash in disbelief. "Twilight? Really? He's a Twiboy?" I nod and she bursts into laughter, a hearty belly-laugh that is somehow still beautiful. She draws stares from other customers in the restaurant, and a relatively attractive waiter walks by, slipping her a note. I feel inadequate, more than I had back in M-TAC. A random man had not even met her, and was already giving her his phone number. "That's horrible." _Yeah, I agree ...  
_  
"Well, I am afraid that it is true." I pat my mouth with the corner of a napkin. Perhaps I should not bring up the note from the waiter, but it is something that really bothers me. To be successful in this mission, there must be a sense of honesty and to create that, there must be open communication. I take a breath and begin, "Jennifer ..."

"Yes, Ziva? Oh, do you want my breadstick? I'm trying to cut down on carbs ..." Jennifer nibbles on a dill pickle spear.

Shaking my head, I continue, "Jennifer, how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You get almost every guy to be attracted to you ... and you don't even try." I look down into my lap. "I know I am being silly and self-centered feeling this way, but it is something I have noticed since I met you."

"What did you notice, Ziva?"

I take a deep breath and fiddle with the stir-stick in my Bloody Mary. It is actually quite disgusting, but Jennifer had insisted I order one, so I had to. Not yet have I surpassed the half-way mark. "I noticed that there's something about you, something that makes me feel ... odd." I rarely talk about my feelings, and therefore I suppose that I sound ridiculous.

Jennifer takes a sip of her own Bloody Mary and nods. "'Odd.' That's rather vague, isn't it?"

"I rarely feel this way, especially not with women, so—" Realization plasters her face.

"Ziva, say no more. It's okay. I understand." I stare at her, shocked. She's even understanding, with no questions asked. I really can't match up to her.

"You … you do?"

"Of course, Ziva," she says, and then drops her voice. "It's okay that you're a lesbian. No one thinks any less of you. And I'm sure Tony would be more than happy to hear that."

"_No!_" I blurt, burying my face in my hands. "Trust me, I am _not_ a lesbian. Not in the very least!"

Jennifer furrows her brow, perplexed. "Then what aren't you used to feeling?"

"Jealousy!" Closing my eyes for a moment, I think of my next plan of attack. Somehow I must prove that I am not a lesbian. "You're prettier than I am and have a better personality. It was almost too much to bear when I met you and then Tony decided that he finds you more attractive than he finds me, so I didn't know how to handle it at _all_."

"So you're jealous of me? Because of _DiNozzo_?" She lets out a lengthy peal of laughter while I stare at her incredulously. "DiNozzo, of all people," Jennifer murmurs as she calms down, and finishes off her drink.

"Why is that so difficult to believe?" I snap. Taking a bite of celery, I decide that even if Tony is in love with her, I do not care. Although I obviously _would_ care, because …

"It's Tony, Ziva. Come on. I'm _engaged_." I blink twice, in an attempt to comprehend her words.

"To who?"

"Benjamen Sulley! The one Tony was talking to." The handsome man with the wide smile and hazel eyes. _Oh._ "If you had talked to me two years ago, I would have told you that the both of them were obnoxious, arrogant bastards and to not waste your time on either man. But then I fell in love." She smiles kindly.

"I'm sorry …"

"No, no, you don't need to be, it's okay," Jennifer pats my hand comfortingly. "After all, you're not the one who accused someone of being a lesbian who's madly in love with you." I chuckle and take another spoonful of soup. _No, no I was not._

Jennifer and I barely get through the front doors before we are assaulted by DiNozzo and McGee. After throwing me my bag and casting Jennifer a disparaging look, the two men drag me out the door.

"What exactly is this all about?" I manage to huff before I am thrown into the van. I am answered with silence, although Tony and Tim slip in a meaningful exchange of looks. "Well? Answer me, or I will not go anywhere."

Tony looks at me disparagingly before stating, "You're actually going to stand there and pretend you don't know." He stands there, dumbfounded but bitter. "Just get in the car." He swings up into the SUV, tossing the keys to Tim. Something is definitely amiss.

I must weigh my words carefully before retorting. Have I done something? Said something? Wracking my brain for a few minutes, I come up short. Unless Eli has said something to Director Vance, something fatherly (which draws a bitter laugh from me, as it is so impossible), there is no reason for Tony to be angry.

"It would be easier to pretend if I actually knew what I had done." Crossing my arms, I stare at the back of his head. I am answered with silence. "Did I forget your coffee this morning?" This cannot be the problem, because I bought him an Iced Caramel and French Vanilla Cappuccino, with skim milk and no whipped topping. I have the receipt to prove it.

Silence.

I try again. "Your breakfast burrito was not cooked correctly?" He is a picky eater; if the cheese is not melted into the salsa, he refuses to eat it. And forget spinach in the egg …

Silence.

"I wore the wrong shirt?" I glance down; Tony had always seemed to compliment me when I wore green shirts, over other colours. In my haste this morning, I had not thought to wear green, but instead a plain white tunic with blue crystal beading.

He seems uninterested in my clothes, so, with my brow furrowed, I begin, "Tony, what did I—"

"You went to lunch with O'Ryan," he bluntly interrupts, heaving a deep sigh.

"—do?" My mouth hangs in a shocked 'O'. How this could make someone like DiNozzo so angry is beyond me. "You're angry … because I went to lunch with our new partner, for my upcoming undercover mission?" I murmur slowly, trying to find some sort of clue in the words. Tony nods tensely, a quick bow of the head, and drums his fingers on the armrest, toying with the button that opens or closes the window.

Tim slowly eases the SUV into a stop, and I look around to find we are in the middle of a parking lot, in the middle of nowhere. There is an abandoned supermarket to our left and crumbled asphalt to our right. McGee jumps out of the driver's side, circles the car, and opens my door. I hop out, a hot ray of sun shining directly into my eyes.

"Gibbs wants us to find evidence pertaining to Lance Corporal Jackson," he explains. Tony sits in the car, door closed, window down. "Apparently, he was—"

"Davíd was not at the meeting. She should read the notes herself; you can't always bail her out." The older man's eyes flick to me for a split second and then stare out at a dying tree at the other end of the lot. It is obvious he knows his biting comment was low.

"And what exactly are you 'bailing' me out of, hmm?" I ask. I know that I am provoking, but I would much rather get into a knock-down, drag-out argument with him than be greeted with the silent treatment I have been challenged with. I add, "What have I _asked_ you to bail me out of, that is."

His eyes snap to mine, shining with hurt. He murmurs, "You've never asked me—_us_—for help. I've—_we've_—always offered, and we follow through. That's what partners do. We're a team." Tony tears his eyes from me, shaking his head.

Shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, Tim blurts, "Well, I'm going to go over by the tree, that way. Far away. Because that's where I should start. So … if you need me, just holler. Because I'm going to be by the tree, and that's kind of far away, and I might not hear you." When neither of us acknowledges him, he continues, "Actually, I won't hear you at all, because that's _far, far_ away, and therefore …."

"Get to the point, Elf Lord," Tony snaps. His edge sends McGee scurrying off in the direction of the tree, his bag and toolbox banging against his leg. His haste would have made me laugh under normal circumstances, but today, I would rather focus on my issues with Tony.

When I am sure we cannot be heard, I say, "Come on, Tony. I can tell that you are upset over more than just my having lunch with Jennifer." He looks at me; if looks could kill—and I have seen a few in my day that just about have—I would be dead twenty times over.

He swings the door open and steps out of the car. We cross to each other, keeping three feet of distance between us, all the while never losing eye contact.

"After our conversation last night, I thought maybe you would have realized what today was." His voice is grave, so grave that for a moment, I am scared to ask what our conversation was about.

However, I shove aside my apprehension and square my shoulders. "What was today, Tony? We have had this lunch planned for weeks. It would have been rude to break it."

"Oh, so it would have been rude to cancel a lunch with a fleeting coworker, for your team-mate." I try to see past the anger in his eyes, but cannot. I take another step toward him.

"I am not following … it was just lunch. If you wanted to have lunch with me, you could have just said so. We had room for you at the table." I feel guilty for leaving him out until he grins bitterly and shakes his head.

"Oh, no, you see, I couldn't. I had other plans today. Plans far different than eating lunch. Although, we did have a small reception." The coldness of his smile is replaced with grief. I shake my head in confusion. We had not made plans last night, or at least, any that I can remember. And my memory of that evening was unblemished.

I had gone home from work around seven, after ordering Indian takeout from a restaurant near my new apartment. When I had arrived home, I had tossed my keys into the gold dish on an ornate side table in my foyer, and hung my jacket up on my coat-tree. I had considered grabbing a plate for my food, but figured that I could eat it just the same with a fork out of the box. I did, however, prepare myself a glass of Arak, and carried that and my box of curry noodles into my living room, setting both on the settee. I turned the television on and settled in, eating my supper and enjoying the latest _Lifetime_ movie. Still thirsty, I poured myself a glass of peach wine for dessert, and then another. With a tolerance as high as mine, I had no qualms about drinking that much. Besides which, I had drank each glass slowly.

It was after those drinks that Tony had called me. He had experienced a pitfall. For months, he had done well in dealing with the grief caused by losing his father. However, he had also been drinking, and had looked at a book he had received from his father one Christmas. After breaking down and crying, and having my number on speed dial—for one reason or another, I still have not figured it out—he called me first.

We had talked for three and a half hours about the harsh realities of life, the pain caused by losing a loved one, and of taking advantage of things in life for our simple pleasure. He had cried, and so had I. And then …

It hits me like a brick wall. I can remember now. Today was the day they were scattering his father's ashes. And he had asked me to be there.

I had agreed.

"Oh, Tony …" I search his eyes, mine begging him to forgive me, though the words will not form. "I …"

"You forgot," he states flatly.

"It was unintentional. I would never have—"

"—Gone anyway?" he interrupts. "I know. I'm sorry I invited you to something only family should—" I jump back in.

"No, Tony, I would have been there. I would have cancelled with Jennifer. Yes, I forgot, but I had consumed several servings of alcohol, more than I should have, and today's event escaped my mind completely." I take another step toward him, and his shoulders tense. "I would have been there," I repeat. "I am so sorry that I was not." Placing a gentle hand on the side of his shoulder, I expect him to shrug it off. Instead, he just stands there, either out of fear or grief or exhaustion.

After a few moments of silence, during which I softly stroke his arm, he chokes out, "Would you really have?"

I nod. "I would not have missed it for anything."

Without even a peek over his shoulder to check that McGee is not looking, he swiftly pulls me into a hug. I am pressed against him, and instinctively wrap my arms around his neck. I hear him smell my hair, and hope that it still smells like guava and coconut. My face in his shoulder, I can smell his deodorant, a light ocean-y scent. Just the fact that I know something so personal makes me blush lightly, before he lets go.

"Grab the camera. I think Gibbs would be kinda mad if we didn't get anything." Tony winks at me and says under his breath, "Guava and coconut, Ziva? Getting a little exotic there, aren't we?" I blush furiously, embarrassed that he knows my shampoo. I nod tersely and retrieve the camera from the back of the SUV, looping the strap around my neck as I watch Tony walk off in the other direction, toward the deserted store. My brow creases as I attempt to turn the camera on.

I take a step away from the car but stop when I feel a crunch under my foot, and carefully lift it to look at what I stepped on. The sun glints off of it, like crystal. I bend down to pick it up and discover that it is a ring.

"DiNozzo, McGee…I've found something," I murmur into my walkie-talkie.

"Good work, Davíd," Tony states, and then grunts as he kicks open the door to the building. I only know this because I can still see him. "I've got something too. But I'll come to you. I may need backup here."

"Well, I am bagging it anyway; it could have something on it that will help Abby." I turn the ring over a few times in my palm and shrug. It is quite beautiful, a solitaire diamond set on a simple gold band. There is an inscription on the inside of the ring; _Tiffany&Co._ Well, then it was definitely expensive. I feel bad for the man who paid for it, just so it could get lost.

The sun again glints off of the stone and something else catches my eye. Upon closer inspection, I can see that it is not dirt, for it is too red; the soil surrounding the area obviously has a low clay content. No, this has a brown-red hue to it, similar to ...

"Blood," I whisper, not noticing my team-mates until McGee takes the ring from me. "It has blood on it."

"Does it? Weird. Because there's a man's wedding band over by the tree, tarnished, with a stain on it that looks a lot like this." He holds it up in the sun, making note of the splotches where stone meets gold. "You know, I think this is one carat...do you know how expensive this would have been?"

"I assumed so, as it is a _Tiffany_ ring," I gloat, having found that before him. "I've always wanted a _Tiffany&Co._ ring, you know." For some reason, I cannot keep my desires to myself. _What is wrong with me?_ I bow my head to hide my slowly developing blush.

McGee nods, stowing it in an evidence bag. "I think every girl does. My sister did, too." He hands the bag to Tony, who stows it in his pocket. _Thank goodness for McGee,_ I think to myself. Wordlessly, we follow him toward the store.

"Now, can one of you shine your flashlight into that corner?" Tony gestures toward a far corner at the front of the store, and I swing my flashlight's beam toward it. "Thanks. Do you see those scratch marks?" Both McGee and I nod. "Good, I thought I wasn't crazy. What do they look like to you?"

The scratches run at random across the walls, chips of paint and stucco flaking off in several areas. "Knife marks," I suggest.

Two beats behind me, McGee chimes in, "Whip lashes?" Tony shakes his head.

"They're too scattered and irregular. To hit someone with a whip," he explains, "one has to calculate distance. This definitely wasn't planned."

I take a step toward the corner and crouch down to get a better look. Among the longer, deeper scratches are those that are shallower. They appear to be scrapes, from maybe something metal. Unless someone had been wearing a suit of armor, the only plausible explanation is…

"Chains," all three of us murmur at the same time. Without taking his eyes from the corner, scratch marks and all, Tony dials his cell phone, and we know he is calling Gibbs.


	3. Once You Had Gold

I can barely sit down before Abby rushes into the bullpen. "So, let me get this straight." She spins around and starts walking back toward the elevator to her lab. At the last second, she whips around and paces back toward us. After repeating this several times, she stops in the middle of the bullpen and looks from Tim, to Tony, to finally, me.

After a full minute and a half of staring, I murmur, "Yes, Abby?" Her eyes narrow. I know what she wants. Pulling both the bagged ring and the swab case from my jacket pocket, I smile. "Here they are. Go have fun."

"Yay!" Abby snatches the bags from my outstretched hands and prances off.

"Do you think she'll find anything?" McGee asks, typing furiously on his keyboard. "I mean, she's Abby. She always finds _something_. But, will she find anything relevant to _our_ case?"

Tony nods. For a moment, I am dumbstruck by how the fluorescent light reflects off of his skin; how his strong jaw moves with each word he speaks, although I am not listening.

My eyes graze over his face. A fine layer of stubble has grown since this morning. The five o'clock shadow above his lip shimmers, the natural gold of his brown hair catching a bit of light. I find myself unabashedly staring at his lips, wondering how soft they are, wondering what it would be like to kiss them, for him to hold me and kiss me back.

I silently hope that the warmness I feel is not translating into blushing, and move my attention to his eyes. A few days ago, when his father died, his eyes had been a blue-ish charcoal. And now, they are crystalline cerulean, framed by long, brown lashes, glittering and beautiful. The endless list of emotions his eyes can display brings a different meaning to Anthony DiNozzo.

There was a time when I could not stand being in the same room with him, because I felt as though he was one-dimensional and arrogant. But now … Now I see that there is so much more to him. That he has the capacity to love.

I allow my eyes to drop to his hands. Long fingers, broad palm, well-kempt nails. Soft, smooth skin, without callouses. I know he plays guitar, but he has such a long thumb that maybe, someday, he should learn to play piano. I am lost for a moment in memories from our undercover mission, more than three years ago, and how _right_ it felt for him to hold me, kiss me, caress my skin.

_Even if it was just a mission._ It was all fake, none of it real, none of it lasting. For him, anyway. Everything changed for me. Whenever I looked at him from the moment those short days and nights ended, I saw the tender, amazing man he portrayed as my new husband during that one, trivial mission.

When we had held hands, it had felt as though we should have never let go. As though we should have both relished in the feelings for a few more moments. As though we were meant to hold hands, for support, for affection, for _love_. For…

_Sympathy._

And it is within this one moment that I realize that I have not asked him how he feels, how the morning has gone, how the service went. The guilt overwhelms me … How I can explain this to him is lost on me.

How I can explain my growing interest in my _partner_ is a bigger concern. _A-meyn. So be it. Jump in, do not look back. What did Ari always tell you? Be more adventurous. Hold back nothing …_

I look up at his face one last time. Neither he nor Tim are talking, both focused on their work. I take a moment to work up my nerve and blurt, "Tony, may I talk to you for a moment? In ... er ... private?" He slowly raises his head to look at me, a small ounce of fear in his eyes. Tim makes to get up but I hold up a hand to stop him. "No, we can use the copy room." Both Tony and I stand and I lead him toward the small supply room.

After I close the door behind us, I turn to find him leaning against the copier and the wall behind it, edging his body as far as he can behind the machine so that there is more between us.

"So, what did I do this time?" Tony chuckles, more because he is nervous than because he is amused. "Hack into your computer? Go through your purse?" I squint at him, trying to understand why he thinks he is in trouble. "Shoot your beloved—"

"This is not about Michael!" I interrupt, before he can finish his sentence. "This is about you, and me, and my not being considerate of you today." If he is surprised, he is doing a very good job of disguising it.

After a moment of awkward silence, he murmurs, "But, Zeev, you didn't have to be. You forgot about the service; it's in the past, ya'know? No harm, no foul. It's perfectly—" Again, I cut in,

"Tony, how did it go this morning? What I missed, that is. I never asked and I feel horrible." Tony looks at me, his blue eyes revealing how much I really did miss. "I…well, that is why I brought you in here. I wanted to ask you." I cross the room and stand in front of him, less than a foot away, placing a gentle hand on the arm resting on the copier.

He stares at it, motionless. I cannot tell whether he is thinking of how to respond, or is uncomfortable with the close proximity I am to him. A pregnant pause. "It went okay."

"How was your cousin?"

"My cousin. Ah, yes, Clive's daughter. What was it, 'Annabelle'?" he snaps. "She was a weepy mess." Without meaning to, I softly stroke his arm, hoping to calm him. It seems to work, as he lowers his voice to say, "She came to see if she was in the will. Why she would be is beyond me, as dear Annabelle is from the other side of the family, but that's alright."

"And your aunt? I think her name was Barbara?" I inquire, itching to reach up and smooth the fly-away baby hairs on his forehead. I refrain.

Tony does not speak for several seconds before wrapping a strong arm around my waist, and then smirks. "You just wanted alone time with DiNozzo." My eyes widen, and I shake my head in confusion. "That's exactly what you wanted. I mean, you obviously care about the service you missed, but the real reason you brought me here was so that we could be _alone_." A deep chuckle rises from low within him as he pulls me closer.

As much as I want to push him away, I simply cannot. In a flash, I am pulled flush to his body, my head once more resting on his shoulder.

"You could have just said so, Zeev," he whispers into my ear. I arch backwards to look up at him, inches from his face. It would be so easy … our faces grow closer. His lips are just about to touch mine before the door swings open and a startled yell snaps us out of our romance.

Ducky.

"Ziva? And Tony? What is going on?" The older man smoothes his sateen tie and straightens his waistcoat. "Are you two…"

Panicking, I back away and throw out a laugh. Anything to change the course of this conversation. "No, no! Of course not, Ducky!" After forcing out another chuckle, I explain, "My undercover mission begins tomorrow, and I am married to David, and we have to find out how Staff Sergeant—"

"Lance Corporal," Tony corrects.

"—Lance Corporal Jackson was connected to the drug cartel out of Cuba."

Ducky raises an eyebrow, obviously not buying my excuse, and waves at us. "As long as Jethro doesn't find out, and it doesn't get in the way of your jobs as agents, I see no problem with you being together." He opens the copier and places a sheet face down on the screen. "However, it is not my place to give that permission. Keep it out of the building, and that also means no 'hanky-panky' in the copy room."

"Of course, Ducky," Tony murmurs, sliding his hand halfway in his pocket, his thumb hooked through his belt loop. "It won't happen again." He walks around the medical examiner and out of the room.

"Miss Davíd, do you love him?" Ducky asks, pressing several buttons on the machine's front, followed by a lengthy line of beeps. He throws his hands to the side and mutters, "Ridiculous contraption, anyway." Turning to me, his eyebrows raise again. "It isn't my place to give advice, as I have no idea what took place between Jethro and Jenny, but if you remember, it had its strong points and its weak ones. So, you need to consider this very carefully."

"Yes, Ducky. I will keep that in mind. Thank you for not alerting anyone." As I, too, walk behind him with the intention of leaving the room, he turns to me, with a big, contemplative smile on his face. "Ducky?"

"Did you know that President Obama met his wife while working under her in her law firm?" I nod and he continues, "Yes, I can see where that can cause some problems, but he obviously overcame them. Romance in the workplace sometimes makes things a little more interesting, don't you think?" Ducky turns his back on me and begins pressing buttons again. "You can see where that got him, anyhow, because he's now the leader of the Free Country, and a rather good one, at that. At least, he's trying to pay the bills, you know…" As he rambles on, I smile and leave the room. His words mean more than Rule Number Twelve ever could.

I make my way toward my desk, my eyes anywhere but on Tony. Gibbs sits at his own desk, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. An eyebrow raised, he nods at me.

"I am on my way to Abby's lab, to retrieve the rings. Would you like me to ask her about the other samples?" I ask, hands on my hips. McGee glances up at me and nods. Gibbs shoots him a stern look and the nod quickly turns into several shakes of his head. "Okay. I will be back shortly."

I step into the elevator, press the button for the basement, and wait patiently to arrive on Abby's floor. My attempts at keeping my relationship with Tony completely plutonic have failed, but I know that I need to curb my emotions. Or my hormones. Or whatever it is that is making me act out this way.

I know that I have never—_never—_treated a man like this before. Never have I gone out of my way to spend time with someone of the male population, nor have I ever gone after a coworker.

Rule Number Twelve. Never date a coworker. I have heard those seven words at least once a week for the past year and a half, and the most painful part of it is that I know for a fact that the feelings I have for Tony are mutual. Every time he looks at me, there is a connection. It is an obvious connection, too, because it brings confused looks from others in the office, especially McGee and Gibbs. Ducky and Abby tend to overlook our behavior.

Anthony DiNozzo has always been there for me, since the moment I became associated with NCIS. Even in my Mossad Liaison days, back when I was forced to execute Ari. The next was after our undercover mission as assassins, when I realized how I really felt about him. Everything fell into place. When Michael came into the picture … Our feelings became cloudy. The boundaries fell away. I no longer knew how to handle him. Or myself, for that matter. Hell, I still rarely have a firm grip on who I am or who I aim to be. And then … Somalia happened.

There I sat in my cell, bruised and beaten and ready to die. Wishing to die; to be dragged to my knees and shot. Every evening, I would be threatened, beaten, starved, sodomized, water-boarded, _whatever it took_ for me to tell everything I knew about NCIS. Every night I would resist. The beatings became more severe. Everything became more severe, although some memories are foggier than others.

At first , I thought I would die. I just assumed that I was a risk that Saleem would not be able to have around for long. A few weeks in, when I was kept there in that dirt and cement block holding cell, very much alive, I did something very wrong, something that went against every fiber of my being.

I began to hope.

I hoped that someone would realize I was missing. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, my father would send reinforcements to the hut and save me. When this did not occur, I wondered if perhaps my father had told NCIS of my abduction and they were handling the situation. I began imagining Tony sitting at his desk, devising a plan, while Gibbs demanded that Abby and McGee try to locate me by satellite. Tony would be very worried, but would come and save me. He would be the hero. I could see it, there in my mind's eye, right there, almost so close that I could touch it. Feel it. Breathe it. And then I would be kicked in the stomach and my dreams would crumble.

I lost hope.

The one day that I actually thought would be my last, I was woken up at two in the afternoon, stomach rumbling and head aching from the previous night's torture session. A sack was wrenched over my head and tied loosely around my neck; my hands still tied behind me, I was yanked violently from the floor and dragged into the hall. I remember the words of one of Saleem's guards vividly…

"_Scream. I dare you. Scream, fight back, your wish is our command. Anything you want, you can have. A dead woman's wish."_

I braced myself for the worst as I was thrust into the room, thrown down onto a wooden chair, and faced with silence. Perhaps they were choosing the weapon with which to kill me. Perhaps they were preparing to have some fun with me as I died.

Suddenly, I was blinded by sun, as the sack was yanked from over my head. I thought it was a dream, I thought perhaps I had actually fallen asleep. Or that not eating for as long as I had, approximately one month, was causing me to hallucinate. Because, there before me, had sat Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. And on the floor beside us, Timothy McGee.

"_Why are you here?"_ I had asked, concerned for his own well-being. He could have died. A rough beating is nothing if in the end, you know you will either be tortured or quickly put to death. But I was brought in to watch both of them be killed. To watch, unable to help, unable to save either of them, as their lifeblood ran out of them. To listen to the sickening, chilling laughs of my captors as they kick and stab and shoot my team. To wait for my turn to go.

"_Just couldn't live without you, I guess."_ He was under the influence of sodium thiopental. The most commonly used "Truth Serum" in the world. Though his words seemed forced, I could tell he was telling the truth. They only sounded strained because he was trying so badly to not say them. For some reason, he thought I would resent them, plain on his face. Somewhere between his split lip, bleeding temple, and dirt-streaked face, he was just as scared of my hating him as I finally recognized I was of him dying.

The moment Gibbs shot Saleem, a weight should have been lifted from my chest. I should have felt better, happier, stronger, more lighthearted. Less scared. But I was just as terrified as I was before, and twice as guilty.

If Tony had been murdered, and Tim, as well, because of my own stupidity and inability to follow orders, it would have been entirely my fault… I would have been responsible for the slaying of two of my former teammates. Gibbs would have been all alone, again, and my trust with NCIS would have been shattered. And, I would be responsible for two murders, instead of my own.

I left Somalia with a sense of insecurity, guilt, and fear, but also with heavy feelings for Tony. He saved me. He alone is the reason I am still alive; he knew I was in danger, somehow, and he initiated a plan to save me. He fulfilled my dream and hope and he is the sole reason I came back to NCIS. I owe my life to that man.

And now, I owe my heart.

I exit the elevator and head toward Abby's lab. She must have something for me by now.

"Abby, have you found anything?" I murmur, walking around her table. But something is different, off. There is no music. No heavy, pounding, screeching guitars or pop-y techno. It is dead silent. "Abby?" My senses are on high alert now, as I creep around her computers toward her office space. I let out a breath as I round a corner and see her sitting at her desk, staring down at the rings. "Abby, what did you find?"

"They were attacked, Ziva!" she wails. "They were just sitting there, talking, newlyweds and all! And then someone, probably two people, pounced on them like a cat would on a mouse."

"Is the blood on the man's ring a match?" I inquire softly, placing a gentle hand on her back.

"To who?" Abby looks up at me in sheer confusion before she comprehends and blurts, "Oh! Lance Corporal Jackson? Kind of." She jumps up from the desk chair and skips out to her computer.

"Kind of? How do you 'kind of' match a blood sample?"

"Well, you see, the DNA is exactly the same." Abby clicks a few times on the mouse and a screen pops up. I personally do not know a thing about DNA, but I nod for her to continue. "Except…for this." She points at a small shaded area on the chart. "See? This is the _only_ part that's different. This is Jackson's DNA to a T, besides the fact that they have one gene that's different."

Stunned by the evidence, I try to wrap my head around it. "What gene is that?"

"Our Lance Corporal has a dead sister."

* * *

_A/N: Hello :). I feel as though perhaps I have to explain the mission a bit more thoroughly, but it will be completely outlined in the next chapter, so, no worries. However, here are the facts._

_It will take place here:  
They will spend much time here:  
The family tree for Ziva and Tony is: _

_-Gibbs and Abby = Tony's father and father's girlfriend, Leroy and Babby.  
-Ducky and Palmer = Uncle Roy and Cousin Adam  
-McGee = Tony's brother, Tommy. [I do admit that I loved the idea from **Last Man Standing** when Tony was whining about his brother crashing his car over webcam with Gibbs. Made me giggle. So, I stole it.]  
-Tony and Ziva = Ana Colette and David Melvin Stadelvard_

Buck? Ooh, you will love Buck. [Hopefully, you are well aware of the art of Sarcasm.]


	4. Life With You

The second I step out of the elevator, I can sense something different in the air. It is tighter, somewhat stressed. I cast a glance across the bullpen, letting my gaze wander about the office, before my eyes snap back to our desks. Someone is sitting at mine. And at Tony's. And at McGee's. Typing. Doing work. _Oh, this will simply not do…_

As I approach, I can see that they are three of the CIA agents that I had met a few days ago. But, just because they are simply _here_, helping us with undercover work, does _not_ mean that they have free reign of _our_ bullpen. Especially the one sitting behind _my_ desk. I bring my hair over one shoulder and slowly navigate through the office to them, watching their every move.

"Excuse me, but, what are you doing here?" I ask, standing in the middle of the triangle. "It was agreed that Jennifer O'Ryan would be the liaison between our agencies."

A girl of approximately four or five years younger than I stands up, a calculating, but stern, expression spread across her face. I immediately give her a once over, determining that, as she carries my frame but has less muscle mass than I do, I could easily take her if she chose to attack me. If only Tony were here to tell them to leave … I have no right to do so. I am, once more, the 'Probie'.

"I am Megan Sulley, and I am a senior agent for the Central Intelligence Agency," she snaps. This 'Megan' girl is beginning to test my patience. "My brother is Benjamen Sulley, the fiancé of Jennifer. If there are any issues, please contact my director." The girl gives me a snotty smile and sits back down. I turn around and stalk toward the boy sitting behind McGee's desk. He, too, stands, but there is a genuine smile on his face.

He sticks out his hand for me to shake and, after I take it, he murmurs, "My name is Gregory Sanchez. I would like to apologise for my partner's rude behavior; she does not open up easily to people."

"You do not have to apologise," I reply, taking his hand. "Welcome to NCIS." For a moment, it seems as though Gregory may say something more, but he sits down and continues to write in his notebook. He seems timid, but kind. I may have to get to know him better.

I feel someone's eyes burning into my back and turn around, completely expecting to see Tony standing there, goosenecking (rubbernecking?) at me from his desk. But, I am faced with the man from M-Tac, the one who must be Benjamen Sulley, Jennifer's fiancé.

He takes several long strides toward me and holds out his hand, white smile and hazel eyes beaming down at me. He lifts his eyebrows once, and states, "Hey! I'm Benjamen Sulley."

I blink.

"Ah, so you don't know me either. Gotcha. Well, I'm also engaged to your partner in this whole big showdown, so I gotta tell you, if you let her die, we _may_ have a problem."

Once more, I blink, a smirk forming on my face, but I remain silent.

"You were just talking to my best friend … Are you ignoring me? You don't hate me, do you?"

After debating in my head whether to reply to him or not, I murmur, "No, Mr. Sulley. You remind me of someone. All of you do." Benjamen stares at me with wide eyes for a moment before shooting me a nervous grin and nodding once. "However." The one word, emphasis on the consonants, sends silence throughout our bullpen. I pace in a triangle and send a scrutinizing look at each person.

"H-however?" Benjamen stutters.

I finally come to a stop at the center of the triangle and declare, "None of you should be sitting at our desks. We are NCIS. This is the NCIS building. You are CIA. Get out of my desk, _please_." I turn to Chris, my eyes gleaming meaningfully. "We have work to do, and a case to solve. If that does not occur within the next hour—"

"Probie!" Tony barks from the elevator. I end my sentence immediately and spin to face him. "Let's go!" I stare at him, hoping all of my condescending and threatening thoughts storming in my brain will transfer through my eyes. "We couldn't find you; new breakthrough, you're with me, gotta investigate more. Okay?" I nod once, and then cast another glare at the agents before grabbing my duffel bag from beside my desk and taking off toward the elevator.

* * *

"No! Let me go! I'm not going with you!"

Nearly deafened by the shrieks of Joann Blowers, our first and only suspect in the Jackson case, I stand, blocking her path, as Tony, Tim and Gibbs combine their strength and attempt to contain the hysterical woman. I quickly scan my team's faces and ask the silent question, "Do you want my assistance?"

Gibbs replies, equally wordless, "Well, yeah, Davíd." I smirk and look square into Blowers' eyes.

"Ms. Blowers, we request that you please stop screaming." I can see that she will most likely _never_ stop screaming, but, as far as I am concerned, that is the least of our worries. "If you do not calm down, we will have to react with force. We do not want to, but you will leave us no choice." _Who am I kidding?_ I laugh inwardly. _This is what I was trained for…_

"What do you _want_ from me?" Blowers wails. "I didn't do it! I didn't do any of it! Why are you doing this to me?" She throws a futile kick at Tony and then slackens her pull against them.

Tony murmurs into her ear, "We just want to ask you a few questions, Ms. Blowers. It says you called Lance Corporal Jackson Wednesday night. Since we have no alibi, we just thought you might know what happened to the guy."

"I had nothing to do with that!" With a sudden surge of energy, she yanks her arm loose of Tony's grip and hurls her fist into Gibbs' jaw, causing him to stagger backward, letting her go as well. I can tell where she expects to go; her eyes flit between mine and the field behind me. If I can just predetermine which way she is going to run … She leans to the left. I stand still.

Before she can take more than two steps, I have her on the ground, face down, and I am locking her wrists in handcuffs. I lean down and say, though rather scornfully, "Had nothing to do with _what_, Ms. Blowers?"

"You'll never get me to tell _you_. Never." As I pull her up off of the ground, casting a smirk at Gibbs, she spits at my feet. "You're nothing but some double-teaming terrorist." My eyes flash, hurt, but I say and do nothing. Gibbs will handle her.

As I climb into the SUV, Tony squeezes my arm. I turn around and perch myself on the edge of the seat as he says, "Don't worry about her. She's wrong. You're not a terrorist. She doesn't know you. Keep your head up." After his five bits of advice, he swings himself up onto the shot-gun seat and shuts the door. With Blowers in custody, I can somewhat relax. We all can.

Nevertheless, I am still hurt that anyone could say something so hurtful. That woman purposely tried to get to me, and I know that I should not give her the power over my emotions, but it seems to be eating away at not only my brain, but my soul. And that bothers me.

"McGoo, pull into Dunkin' Donuts. I need a coffee," Tony requests softly. "And I think someone may need a tea." I know he is referring to me, quietly sitting in the backseat, letting myself become overwhelmed by my own despondency. "And we need some bagels for the stock room. And Abby wanted a muffin." The SUV swerves into the parking lot and Tony gets out, rifling in his pocket for his wallet. He disappears into the shop and returns ten minutes later with a large box.

I expect him to get into the front seat, but he instead motions for me to lower my window. I do. He extracts a Styrofoam cup from the box and hands it through me through the window. His fingers just barely graze mine, assuring that I have a grip on the cup, but it is enough to send my stomach into another frenzy. I take a sip of tea and thank him.

After returning to his seat, Tony tosses me a bagel over his shoulder. "You haven't eaten all day. Eat that." When I do not, he looks at me in his visor's mirror, telling me without saying a word that I had better eat at least a few bites of the bagel. Grudgingly, I take a small nibble out of the side.

"There, happy?" I mutter. Since when is he my father?

"A bit happier, yeah." Not a moment too soon, as neither of us really want to discuss my eating habits, his cell phone rings. "Hey Boss. Yeah, we're headed back right now. We just got a tea for Ziva and some bagels...Okay...When's the flight leave?" _Figures, he'd be talking about the mission._ "In the morning?" _Hm,_ I think, _I am not certain I like the sound of that …_ "I mean … that sounds _great_, Boss...Yeah...Alright." Tony snaps his phone shut and grins sarcastically, nodding.

"When does our flight leave, Tony?" I ask quietly.

"Four."

"In the morning?" I groan, echoing his previous words. "Lovely."

"Yeah, Boss said he's letting us go home early, since McGee and he can handle the interrogation." He sips at his coffee. I had noticed he had not put cream or sugar into it when he'd gotten into the car, and he was not eating a bagel. "I guess when we get back, he's gonna give us the lowdown."

"I cannot wait."

* * *

True to his word, Gibbs did indeed 'give us the lowdown' when we arrived in the bullpen.

"Ziva, DiNozzo, conference room," he had ordered, moments after we stepped out of the elevator.

And now, there we sit, waiting for Gibbs to join us.

Canandaigua, New York is a gorgeous community. I had been looking at brochures a few days ago and knew that Canandaigua Lake offered a breathtaking view and a lovely vacation. The house in which Tony and I would be staying was even beautiful. There is just something about the entire mission that has not ceased to make me feel uncomfortable.

When Gibbs throws open the door and sits at the other end of the table, more brochures and packets included, I do not feel any more comforted.

"Canandaigua, New York. You're going to live about half a mile from a small hamlet called Cheshire. Not much to do there, but you also live about five or ten miles from the city, so you have a Wal-Mart, Wegmans, Top, you name it," he says. I know to pay attention; he will only say any of this once. "You already know you're going to be married. Newlyweds. But things have changed, Ziva. Just a bit."

"To what?" I inquire, my heart fluttering nervously.

"You are two months pregnant, and therefore—"

Tony interrupts, "She's _what_?" Both Gibbs and I look at him. "She's…with …Oh my God."

"She's carrying your kid, DiNozzo," Gibbs snaps before looking back to me. "Now, we have packs for you to wear under your clothes and Abby and I are planning to come visit often. Depending on how long the assignment lasts, we can bring you larger packs. If the mission lasts longer than six months, we'll just bring you home." Smirking, he adds, "We don't think it'll take that long to get the guy, but we had to be safe."

He turns to Tony, but before he can begin, the younger agent laughs nervously and says, "Well, we obviously weren't! And how is this supposed to…Oh, no, not again…"

From personal experience, I cannot tell you how much truth is behind the saying, "History has a tendency of repeating itself." And now we are repeating our undercover assignment from before. I know I am just as uncomfortable as Tony is, but I do a better job of hiding it.

"Yeah, DiNozzo. Problem?" When Tony shakes his head, Gibbs continues, "Alright. Good. As David, you're expected to at least know the basics of farming. You're a city-boy, but you know how to plant crops and feed animals."

"No, Boss, don't make me…"

"You also know how to drive tractors and fix machinery."

"Oh, no, come on, Boss…there has to be another way," Tony wails. "There just … has to be. Something else other than me driving a John Deere around an open field singing, 'All of My Exes Live in Texas.'" He quickly catches his mistake and stammers, "Not that there's anything _wrong_ with having exes. I was just … saying… I'd look like a fool driving a tractor, singing …"

Gibbs looks at him, a sparkle in his eyes. "Then don't sing, DiNozzo." He turns back to me. "You're pretty much the epitome of 'housewife' in this. Cooking, cleaning, gathering eggs, that kind of thing." I must be visibly frowning, because the older man leans toward me and says, "Hey, Davíd, it's just a few months. No one actually thinks you're a housewife."

But that is not why I am frowning. I could not care less about people thinking I am some sort of 'housewife,' as Gibbs put it. I know I am not, and that is all that matters. The truth of the matter is, I sometimes wish I _was_. Sometimes I wish I was married, with three or four children, living in a beautiful white house with a matching white picket fence and a black mailbox. In this dream, there would be trees in the front lawn, a swing-set in the back, a garage, and a large yard for my children to play in. My husband would be the epitome of 'perfect,' and love me more than anyone else. I would cook rich meals for my family to enjoy, make sure the house is sparkling at all times, spend all of my time raising my children to be respectful and responsible. I would have the perfect life.

"Sounds like a real Wysteria Lane to me," Tony mutters, breaking me out of my pointless dream. "Look, Boss, this doesn't seem very realistic."

"David and Ana Stadelvard seem to think so. We've put together profiles for you, so that if anyone looks you up, you're taken care of."

I remember that the CIA is involved in this case, and murmur, "What about Jennifer?"

"She'll be around. She's your realtor," Gibbs tells me, shooting me a serious look. "She's been to the house. The only room that isn't too stellar is the front office. Someone broke in—we think it was someone directly related to this case—and smashed a window, broke a chair, rifled through books and pretty much anything else in there. The rest of the house is in great shape."

I raise the Styrofoam cup of tea to my lips and take a small sip. Gibbs continues to tell us about the assignment

"I am David's father, and Abby's my girlfriend. As weird as this is, there _is_ a reason for it. Tommy will be your brother, and he lives in Bloomfield."

"Bloomfield. Really?" Tony scoffs, then straightens, "How far is that from us, Boss?"

"Eh, about fifteen minutes if you're driving slow. Abby and I are from Ovid, so that's why we're staying weekends with you. During this time, we'll act like any other relatives; go on family outings, invite neighbors over for dinner, go shopping, etcetera. I'll help with the farm. When Abby's there, she'll test just about anything she can find."

Nodding, I can feel myself start to relax. Perhaps this mission will not be too bad after all.

* * *

"You're really gonna buy _that_? It looks like someone hurled on it." Tony takes the hanger from my hand and puts it back on the rack. "Just because you're preggers doesn't mean you have to dress like some sort of flagrant Amish person or something. I mean, we're living on a farm, not in Lancaster."

"Tony, that dress was no better than your twill jacket. It looked like someone had pasted strips of cotton onto it." I take the dress back. "I'm going to go try it on." As I try to duck around him, Tony steps in my way. "Move."

"No! It's a hideous dress and…" He holds out another dress. It is red satin, with a rhinestone brooch in the center of the bodice. "…_this_ is a sexy dress. That? No. There's nothing sexy about puke."

"If I'm pregnant, there has to be something sexy about me for you then," I snap, snatching the red dress from Tony's grasp. "Or I would not be pregnant at all."

He laughs. "Ah, the mood swings. Gotta love the mood swings."

I walk around the rack to the other side when I hear Tony take in a sharp breath. Looking up, I see him blushing furiously as he stares at something hanging on the end. I skip to where he is and stand behind him, resting my head on his upper arm. There, floating down by two satin straps, is a roseate negligée. I wiggle my eyebrows at him and reach out to pluck it off of the hanger. Maybe a little _too_ quick to punish, I hold it out for both of us to look at.

The sweetheart neckline—if you can even call it that, since it is cut so low—gathers at the center with a satin bow in the same colour. The sheer georgette cascades to what looks to be, now that I hold it up to my own body, mid-thigh.

_Well,_ I think to myself, raising my eyes to Tony's, _we __**are**__ supposed to be married … and very much in love …_ I lay the negligee over the rest of the clothes on my arm and continue shopping while Tony follows me like a puppy.

"Wait, you're buying … it?" he stammers, trailing me a bit too closely. "But … why?"

Insipidly, I hold up another shirt—a forest green army-style—and reply, "Simply because we love each other and I want you to have fun, too."

"We love each oth…er!" Realisation dawns on his face and he wraps an arm around me. "Yes, we love each other!" Swooping down for a quick kiss, he takes me by surprise.

"No." I shrug him off. "Not yet, we don't."

But I know that's not entirely true, as I press my lips together and try not to revel in the sweetness of his.

* * *

_A/N: Eh, not too happy with this chapter. It feels like filler for me. So, review if you want, but I already know it's not my best. Much love, Kat_


	5. White Houses

A/N: Hello, and welcome to Chapter 6. I just wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed the fic so far. It means so much to me that I have support and have interested a group of people as I have. Also, I must forewarn you that...well...nothing in this chapter is meant to offend any one. The end, really. I have nothing against Southern people; I actually want to move to Texas or at least visit. Hopefully you all continue to read! Enjoy.-Kat

* * *

There are six things in the world that I have never cared for. For each, there is a reason.

As we make our way toward security, we pass a store that, on one of the racks, is selling puppets for small children. I shudder.

_The sixth fear is that of puppets. Mannequins, puppets, nutcrackers, dolls, marionettes, all of them—very creepy. I cannot even watch Jeff Dunham and enjoy it, especially not Achmed. I have tried and tried to get over this fear, because I know that Jeff Dunham is one of the funnier comedians on television, and that I need a good laugh every now and then, but all I end up with is a sleep full of nightmares, and a morning begun by a cold sweat. It is _not_ good._

A little girl plucks a puppet from the rack and makes to play with it, until her mother orders her to put the fabric doll back on the shelf. "Do you know where that's been? I don't. Put it back."

_The fifth encompasses the realm of arachnids. Eight legs and fur and beady little eyes, the ability to jump away from the impending shoe, their scurrying little bodies across ceilings and floors and bathtubs and sand…They make me shudder. Transform me into little more than a baby, cowering in another room, refusing to enter any room which would put me at risk of seeing, feeling, or being surprised by the creepy thing._

Luckily, spiders are uncommon visitors in airports. As I slip my shoes off and place them on the conveyor belt, I also thank God that airplanes, though germ-infested, provide little habitat for spiders.

_The fourth is directly correlated to the world of horror films. Tony was not the first film aficionado that I have had the … what is the word—pleasure will just have to do—pleasure of knowing. Nehemiah Romach was a child on my street for the majority of my childhood. Of course, I would have to tell some sort of small white lie in order to see him, because, at my age, girls and boys did not intermingle. Before Tali died, Nehemiah somehow convinced me to go with him to see a movie. It was a horror film. I cannot recall the name, but Nehemiah had seen it five times and knew all of the words, all of the gory scenes, and wanted me to watch very closely. _

_The blood was not what frightened me, but the masks the murderer wore and the look of unadulterated terror in the victims' eyes … I had run out of the room. I only realized years later that when I was sent to kill people, they looked at me with similar looks in their eyes. _

Tony apparently does not function well in the morning, and has chosen to sleep until the layover in Newark, New Jersey. He did decide against bringing his portable DVD player. For some reason, I feel that he would have brought a horror film with him to watch. Something about living in the country.

_The third fear revolves around weapons. Surely, a former Mossad agent cannot be afraid of weapons, correct? Am I being silly? Yes, probably. But after Somalia, I could no longer look at whips, or chains, or knives the same way again. Obviously, I still carry around my knife, and I feel comfortable using a gun, but I must acknowledge the fact that, should any weapon fall into the wrong hands, they can become very dangerous. _

"Federal agent," I reply when a security guard asks if I am carrying, displaying my badge. I lift my pant leg and pull aside my jacket to reveal my knife and handgun . He nods and lets me through. I suppose that being an agent has its benefits.

_The second is probably very typical; love. I am terrified of letting my heart become the 'property' of someone else, whether it is intentional or not. I had been taken advantage of by Michael—may he rest in peace—and also by my father. I refuse to let any of that happen again. I simply would not survive it. Love is not even confined to just romance; it has to do with family, and support, and pride. The only family that I have now, as far as I am concerned, is my NCIS family. And somehow, I am okay with that. _

I glance at Tony. Perhaps I am not okay with him just being family. But, for the next few months, I will be more than that, at least in character. Certainly, I cannot love him as anything more, but the past week has been such an emotional rollercoaster that I am unsure of my emotions.

Tony and I head in the direction of our boarding gate, passing a massage booth and a charging station for our phones. We finally come to a coffee shop that, surprisingly, serves made-to-order chai. I throw another look at Tony, who, although his eyes are open, is definitely half asleep, and decide to buy him a coffee as well.

Both cups in hand, I return a few moments later and thrust his coffee toward him. He looks up at me, wordlessly, although gratitude pools in his eyes. They are intensely blue today, cerulean again. I shake my head. _I make him sound like a crayon_, I admonish myself.

I pull my legs up into an Indian position and sip my chai. I have not had a good chai in at least a year. Somehow, for whatever reason, I did not think they even had chai in the United States, and have been severely disappointed. We remain wordless until our seats are called.

Gathering our luggage, we file toward the line, tickets ready. It seems so monotonous this morning, like everything is tinged with grey and everyone is sleeping. I am briefly reminded of that Christmas movie … _Santa Claus is Coming to Town,_ I believe it is called. Where everything is tinged with grey and none of the children can be happy or play with toys, especially not dolls or yo-yos.

We take our seats in first class. Tony wraps his neck support—the very one he offered I use on my flight to Israel—and rests his cheek against it. He soon falls asleep. When the stewardess begins the safety instructions, however, he perks up considerably. I snort in disgust.

"Hey, okay, what if it's like _Raid on Entebbe_?" he jokes. "You don't wanna be stuck here, do you?"

"What is _Raid on Entebbe_?" I ask, opening the safety manual and double checking my seatbelt. "Is that a movie?"

"Well, yeah, it's a movie! It was a great one, too. Won a Golden Globe in 1978 for Best Motion Picture on TV!" Attempting to recline, he shoves backward in his seat, until another stewardess, clad in the typical uniform, asks him not to until we are in flight. "Sorry," he apologises, but I can tell he is not.

"And what is this movie about?" I really wish he would go back to sleep. His tired goofiness is endearing, but the fact I find it endearing concerns me.

"A flight from France is skyjacked by the PFLP." I tense up, knowing where this is going. Israel was part of this. Eli had told me about the maneuver, although Mossad had not been involved. "There were, like a hundred Jewish passengers, but the Israelis wouldn't negotiate or anything." I turn to him, torn between being offended or interested in his summary. "Finally, a group of soldiers flew in their own plane to the other plane, and saved them all, except for one Lieutenant Colonel Yoni Netanyahu."

My father had technically known him at one point, so it is strange for me to hear about this. I give him a simple nod and a smile.

Which brings us to my greatest fear.

_Flying. Hijackings, and birds getting caught in the engines, and running out of fuel, and crashing … I rarely want to fly at all, but as NCIS pays me, and Gibbs would give me a head-slap if I told him I was afraid of something so trivial as a plane, I surrender my fears most of the time. And now that I get to sit beside Tony DiNozzo on most flights, I rarely get too scared at all. _

* * *

"Welcome to Rochester, New York!"

At some point of the flight, I must have fallen asleep, because I jerk awake at the sound of the pilot's voice. I nudge Tony, but he is already awake, and he simply smiles at me.

"Morning, sunshine." That is the last time I fly anywhere with Anthony DiNozzo.

"The temperature is a brisk fifty-four degrees and the humidity is low. We hope you have enjoyed your flight on Jet Blue Airlines and that you will fly with us again soon! It's been our pleasure flying you today to Rochester."

The speaker crackles and the stewardess murmurs into the radio, "You may now unbuckle your seatbelts and gather your belongings from the overhead compartments. Please be careful when opening the compartments as items tend to shift during flight. We hope you have enjoyed your flight today and will fly again with us soon."

_They are far too perky for someone who had to get on a plane at four in the morning, _I think darkly, casting a look around me and yawning. There is an undeniable urge to stretch, so I raise my arms above my head and arch backward. I catch two teenage boys staring at me, most likely at my slimness, and I glower at them.

"Hey, _Ana_, relax. You were a teenager once too," Tony jokes, looping an arm around my shoulders. _And so it begins._

* * *

While I am using the ladies' room, Tony disappears in search of _Dollar_ car rental. When I finally find him, I discover he has rented a Ford Mustang.

"Really, David, was it necessary for you to rent _this_?" I walk around the car, softly grazing the sides with my fingers. The metal is cool to the touch, and I press my wrists against the door, trying to ward off the nausea flying often instills in my stomach.

"Yes, _Ana_, it was. I love this car. I would buy this car if I could." Tony opens the car door and releases the trunk. "Here. Let me get your suitcase….s….How much clothing did you bring?"

"We are moving. There is more in the moving van," I sniff, watching my 'husband' lift my suitcase and bag and somehow make room for his. "Besides, I like to have a choice of what to wear." _After all, there was a time when I did not._

"Right," Tony murmurs, and takes a box out of his pocket. "Here, Ana, your ring, so that I don't lose it." He hands me the fused wedding band and engagement ring. Sun glints off of the diamond as he takes them back, then wraps his hand around mine. "I'll do it." I furrow my brow. Why would I not be able to put my own ring on? As the cool metal slips over my finger, I stare at Tony's hands.

"Why did you not just let me—"

"Because I _am_ your husband, and I felt that it would be romantic." I stare up at him and marvel at his expression. It is neither happiness nor frustration. He is content. So, there is no reason why I should not be.

"Well, then, I should be the one to put your ring on, correct?" I gently work the velvet box from his grasp and remove the gold band, turning it over in my palm. Slowly, I slide it over his ring finger. The butterflies in my stomach take off and for a moment, I worry that I am going to be sick. They die down soon enough when he leads me to the passenger side of the car and hands me my purse.

"M'lady," Tony states, bowing his head and opening my door. "Your chariot awaits." I roll my eyes and get in, and he shuts the door behind me. After he is settled and the car is started—to which he moans, "Mm, listen to that baby purr,"—we are finally on our way to the farmhouse.

* * *

After effectively navigating through rolling hills and gorgeous countryside, past horse farms, and cow farms, and then some pretty rare housing developments, we pull into the gravel driveway of the house. I can tell from the somewhat uncomfortable expression on Tony's face, the tension in his jaw and slight wrinkling at the corners of his eyes.

"It is pretty, at least," I state matter-of-factly, breaking the silence. "And the house is pretty big. Looks like it's about seven or eight bedrooms, at least." A flash of grey fur catches my attention. "Kitten!" I hop from the car and hurtle toward the cat, perching on a bale of hay. "Aren't you precious."

I look up when I feel a gaze directed at me. I cannot, however, find the origin of the stare. Tony is still in the car, most likely dialing Gibbs' number to complain, whilst I sit and take in my surroundings. I shake off the feeling and continue petting the cat, hoping that some of the calm vibes will transfer to me.

This is what I have been dreaming of. Well, not yet. But soon, it will be. Soon, this house will be mine. At least for a month. And then I can return to the real world, my dream achieved, and figure out from there how to get it back.

"Wayell, howdeh, l'il ladeh!" a voice suddenly calls, breaking me out of my thoughts with a jerk. Clad in nothing short of full cowboy attire, including the boots, cowboy hat, and suspenders, a man of about twenty years old squeezes past a combine in the barn. "Oh, ah'm sorreh fer frightenin' ya!" I furrow my brow, not sure whether I have inadvertently also wrinkled my nose.

Before I have a chance to reply, most likely with a rude answer, Tony is by my side, his hand between my shoulder blades. It is a soft reminder that, even as just my partner, he has my six. He always has my six.

"Hi. I'm David Stadelvard, and this is my wife, Ana," he murmurs, extending a hand for the man to shake. The gesture is not returned.

Instead, the words, "Nahce t'meet ya" are murmured. It is a Southern accent that I have never heard before. Though I have travelled through several states of the South, no one I have ever met has spoken their vowels so harshly. My eyes narrow, appraising his rugged and dirty exterior, and hoping he is not the man we were sent to watch. I am soon disappointed, as he introduces himself, "Ah'm Buck Andrews." A beat. "_Junior_."

Tony and I exchange a glance that, to an outside, would appear to be a normal interchange between husband and wife, but is really a shout of, "He's our guy!" I smile, though, and meet his eyes once more.

"Well, Buck, it is very nice to meet you, as well. We have been looking forward to seeing this house for ourselves. Our realtor, Becky Jones, sent us pictures, and we have barely been able to wait."

"You two've come to th'right place! Yes, ma'am, this here house's been here fer about a good solid hund'rd years'r'so, and it's still got a sturdy foundation." Leaning against the combine, he lifts a leg up to prop his foot against a wheel. "Everything's included, y'see, `n I reck'n you kin get it fer a purdy good prahce, if yer willin' t'bah."

Tony stiffens beside me. "_Everything_, Buck? As in…"

"Yessiree! Everything. The cows—we've got about, ah'd say, twenny of `em-`n then we gotta few hens `n a rooster. Affer that, thur's a coupla horses `n a bull, `n two pigs `n a sheep `er two." After a moment, Buck adds, "And then you've got five hund'rd acres o' land that's all yers!" His excitement does not reach Tony.

"Oh, well, that's just excellent." There is a flatness to my 'husband's' voice that makes me chuckle. "What a great place to raise a family. Right, Ana?"

Without missing a beat, I nod and beam up at him. "Oh, yes, David … It's what I've always wanted."

"And whatever Ana wants, Ana gets. Right, baby?" Somehow, I feel comfortable with him calling me 'baby.' Usually I resent the usage of pet names, but this one … this one is okay. "Right. So, when can we get a look-see at the house?" I can tell he is just as irritated with Buck's accent as I am. It would not be as aggravating if it were not so obnoxious.

"Wayell, ah s'pose y'can go own in," Buck answers, scratching his head. "Although, the front room is a real mess."

Tony and I glance at each other. "Why?" I ask.

"Some ruffian done broked in th'other naht. Mussed up ev'ry dang thang, fer sure."

"Oh, Buck, that doesn't bug us," Tony murmurs, "We knew we'd have to do some cleaning before we could move in. Ana and I just want to see the house before we buy it. Cleaning can happen later."

"Ah guess ah cayen't stop ya, then," Buck concedes, playing with his fingers. "Besahds, yer gonna love it."

We nod and make our way across the small drive to the house. It is tall, white and looming, the original farmhouse cliché. There are dark green shutters on each window, a beautiful porch, trees providing shade in the vast lawn. Flower beds frame the house, a magnolia tree in full bloom scents the air, and the detached garage seems to house landscaping tools. There is a white fence running along the left side of the house, as if separating the yard from the field next to it.

I take in a deep breath. The air is fresh and clean, and I visibly relax. The entire package seems so familiar, so … perfect. In a way, I can actually feel comfortable in my character, as though somehow, I really am Ana Stadelvard, and Tony is David Stadelvard, and we are in love, and we—

"I'm so not ready for such a commitment," Tony blurts, running a hand through his hair. "But we have to get a house. Especially for your sake…"

I place a gentle hand on the side of his neck and state softly, "This is the perfect place to raise a family." I stare deeply into his eyes, silently begging him to just suck it up and deal with the fact we are out in the middle of nowhere. "Leroy said that we are ten minutes from a Wal-Mart, and a Wegman's…"

"Okay. Okay, fine," he finally admits, "we can buy the house." _Well, we sort of__** have**__ to…_

"So this is alright with you?" I draw close to him, inches from his face. After all, we _are_ newlyweds…

He places a feather light kiss on my lips. "Yes, Ana, my love. It is _very_ alright with me." Tony turns toward the barn, his arm still tight around my waist. "Oh, Buck! We'll take it."

_The beginning of my dream._

_A/N: Well. Yep. There you go. :) As an end note, I just wanted to say that in the future, I will be trying to incorporate some Hebrew words into Ziva's words. Not swears or anything, just little blurbs. So. If I get anything wrong, spelling wise, let me know. However, I am spelling words off of phonetic spellings sent to my email. Yes, I am trying to teach myself Hebrew. Like I said. Tell me if I spell something wrong. Thanks!_


	6. Wake Up

_A/N: Hello, all, I greet you all at 11:12 PM, from my bed, because I am super determined to get you this chapter before tomorrow. So, there. Just so you know, this chapter is incredibly fluffy. Trust me. If this bothers you, please read no further than the group laughing. If you have seen **Under Covers** (which, if you are a true NCIS/Tiva fan, you have...), you should know what comes after that. **Smiles.** As for Buck's accent, I'm not sure if I've stated this before, but, read his words phonetically. I sounded them out to myself first, before I wrote them down. If you have to say his lines outloud to get them, go right ahead. :) Trust me, it's funnier that way. Before I let you read, because I know that's what you're all really here to do, **laughs**, I just want to thank all of the wonderful people who have reviewed thus far, and anyone who has put **Just A Day at the Office** on their Story Alerts list. It means sooo much to me. Okay, go read. Love, Kat._

* * *

"He gives me an…odd….feeling, David," I complain as I grab my purse from the car. "I cannot describe it, but there is something off about him." After digging in my purse for a moment, I hand the key off to Tony, who just looks at me analytically. "What?"

"Well, what did he do specifically that made you feel weird?" he mumbles, fighting with the lock. "Was it a look he gave you, or something he said…? The way he stood?"

I shake my head. "That's just it, David, I haven't the slightest why he creeps me out, but he does." Watching him fumble with the doorknob, I reach forward and turn it in the opposite direction. The door swings open and we are greeted by a breathtaking foyer.

Green walls bordered with off-white crown molding, hand-painted portraits hung amongst mirrors, a small chandelier suspended from the ceiling…For moment, one could forget that they were on a farm at all.

After regaining my breath, I murmur, "Toto, I do not think we are in Kansas anymore…" The only response from Tony is a bright grin and applause. "Why must you do that?"

"That was a spot-on movie reference, Ana!" Suddenly he is wrapping his arms around me from behind and whispering in my ear, "And I like when you call me Toto." He nips at my neck, right below the ear, before retreating to the car to retrieve our luggage. A brilliant flush rises from my chest all the way up into my cheeks, and I hope for my sake, Tony has missed it.

I can feel a presence behind me, and turn around expecting to see Tony holding out my luggage. Instead, I find Buck standing in the doorway, staring at me lecherously. "Is there something I can do for you?" My words seem to snap Buck out of his trance, but he says nothing. Thankfully, Tony returns, both my luggage and his in tow.

After looking between me and the farmer several times, he finally sets down my suitcases and smiles. "Buck, we're going to buy the house. I just called the realtor and she said she'd be out tonight with the papers … There is nothing that can possibly happen to make us re-nig on this promise, so would it be okay if we spent the night here?"

"Whah, sho! Yer waylc'm t'jes stay raht her `n relax. Y'like the house, that's fayentastic!"

I eye Buck warily. There is something not right about his accent. "Where is your family from, again, Buck?" I ask, melting into Tony's side. We are so close that it is as though we could be one body.

"We're from raht `round her, Ana! Been her fer `bout two hundo' years, ya'all." _The accent is completely off, then._

But I simply say, "Oh." If he played any role in the abduction of the three seamen, there would be time for breaking his accent later. If not, he is just odd.

Tony and I want to be alone. It is obvious. We are putting the fronts across our eyes, the lusty 'We have a house, I love you, let's make love' fronts, and there is no mistaking the fact that Buck is oblivious to all of it.

"So, Buck, where do you live?" Tony bites out, and I can tell he wants nothing more than to retreat inside, away from the wheat pollen and cows, and forget about the farm entirely.

"Aw, wayell, down th'road a-ways. F'yer gonna be runnin' th'John Deere, ya'll might wanna gimme a call and ah'll come own down `n help ya out."

Tony's jaw tenses. "What makes you think I can't run a tractor, Buck?" He grins, but it does not reach his eyes.

"Ya'll seem a bit … green. Not meanin' t'offend, sir, but yer jus' not a farm boy."

"I think we'll be fine." Tony looks down at me, smiling warmly, but his eyes are clearly screaming, _He has overstayed his welcome._ "My dad and his girlfriend are coming out soon to help us move in the rest of our stuff."

"Oh yeah? That's _realllllllll_ nahce o'them." He is plainly dense. "Mah dad `n grandpappy'll wanna meet them."

I jump in before Tony bites his head off, "Yes, Leroy and Babby would love to meet you, too. They are looking forward to meeting our neighbours." Tony chokes on what must be his own saliva. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" I lay a hard rap between his shoulder blades and he quickly stops.

"Yep," Tony says, his voice raspy. "Yeah, I'm fine. _Smooth_." He grins at Buck, and I can only assume it is another movie reference. After regaining his composure, he draws me in front of him, flat to his body, and stares at Buck over my shoulder. "If you don't mind, Buck, we were thinking of going inside and getting ourselves a bit more _settled._" I flush, but smile, so that Buck knows I am not embarrassed. _Even though I am dying inside._

"We have to set up the nursery!" I quickly explain, beaming.

"Aw, yer gonna have a l'il young'n? How nahce fer ya'll." Buck glances at my abdomen before dropping his voice to ask, "How far along r'ya?"

"About two months." If he had any brains, he would know that I was lying, and that there were no way I would still be so trim if I were two months pregnant, especially since I _am_ so slim. But, he does not catch my fib, and I can easily add, "We were told to expect the baby next May." I decide to be as realistic as possible, and gaze up at Tony, simply beaming. He returns my gaze, although a strip of panic floats in his blue eyes. His breathing has grown slightly shallow.

I do not call him on it, because many fathers are this way when their wives are expecting. "David?" I murmur.

"I was just thinking about how lucky we are, Ana. We've got our own little present. Like a housewarming gift." He places a gentle kiss on my temple and looks at Buck. "I mean, look at me. A beautiful house, a beautiful wife, and I get a beautiful baby next Spring. My life is really looking up." After a beat, he quickly adds, "I'm going to have a great night."

I am beginning to think that Tony is looking out for me, trying to get Buck to leave so that I can feel comfortable again. But his efforts go unseen by the farmer, and Tony finally has to blurt,

"_Dude_. My wife and I want to be _alone_." I like the way he says '_my wife and I_'. "_Alone_-alone. To celebrate our new family and new home. _Alone_. Just her and I." Still, Tony is just grinned at. He laughs a bit, and I look up to see that he is completely shocked that his words can be misunderstood. "Buck … Our celebration may get a bit graphic. Explicit. And we want to be alone. We don't want to be rude, because you've been _so_ much help—really! You have been!—but Ana and I really need to ask you to … like … leave."

"Oh! _Thayet_ kinda 'alone.' Ah'm sorreh!" Buck apologises, realization washing over his face. "Wayell, since y'got all'r'yer clothes `n stuhf," Buck cheerfully bubbles, "ah guess ah should letch'ya'll go. Y'said yer ladeh is comin' out here later?" Tony and I nod. "Jus' gimme a holler when she gets hur, then. Thanks, ya'll!"

As he makes his way down the drive to his car, Tony and I exchange glances. There is not a doubt in my mind that the Senior Field Agent now sees why I have a problem with Buck.

* * *

Our afternoon has been uneventful thus far. Gibbs and Abby pulled into our driveway at around noon. It is one now, and although they brought a delicious lunch and a trunk-full of food, I know that it will only become more monotonous with time. And we have four months of it.

Gibbs' pointed question breaks me out of my stupor. "So, what made you dislike the guy, Ana?"

Shaking my head, I can only reply, "I don't know." After a few moments of silence, during which I ponder all of the points of Buck that grated on my nerves, I supply him with, "His accent is completely wrong, and he watches us like a pigeon."

Tony nudges my side and smirks, "Pigeons are scary and all, Ana, but I think you meant, 'hawk.'" I glower at him, the threat of my punching him heavy in my eyes, but he makes an attempt at erasing his words by pressing his lips into the crown of my head and murmuring, "But it's so cute when you get those idioms wrong, m'dear."

"Thank you, David," I mutter before continuing, "I have a feeling that we will be forced to put on a show of sorts for him. We were nearly forced to make love in front of the man." Before a reaction can be made, I blurt, "_And_ he looked like he wanted it. He just did not understand us when we asked him to go away!"

"Well," Abby chirps, "You both _are_ pretty hot, so I can see why he'd want to watch." Her eyes go wide. "Not that I want to watch or anything; I just meant that it makes sense. Because it does, in a really sick way. Obviously only a really sick person would _ever_ want to—" Gibbs holds up a hand.

"Babs, we get it." Taking a sip of bourbon from his tumbler. His gruff exterior had melted almost immediately as he had stepped out of Abby's car. Now, the normally strict man was replaced with a loving, jovial Gibbs that Tony said he had not seen since Kate had joined the team.

Gibbs turns his attention to me and murmurs, "Ana."

"Yes, Leroy?" I take a sip of my wine. Abby had brought the entire cupboard from our office, the stash from the Christmas Parties that she had kept in her lab. I feel Tony's arm grow heavier on my shoulders and settle into the back of the chair.

"Do you like the house?" I know this is code for, _What've you found, Davíd?_

"Oh, it is exquisite." _Absolutely nothing._

"I agree. Anything you have to fix?" He sips at his wine again. _Any evidence at all?_

"Just the window in the front room, and then some burned carpet upstairs in storage. David and I think we will call to replace the window tomorrow, and, since the storage room is such a pretty yellow, we will use it for the nursery."

There is nothing that is supposed to mean, other than what my words are.

Abby bounces in her seat. "Tommy's coming tomorrow to help you move in! So guess what!" Tony and I glance at each other over my shoulder, and gesture for her to tell us. "Leroy and I are going down to the antique store in Cheshire!"

_Oh no_, I groan inwardly. On the outside, however, I smile. "That sounds like fun!"

"I love antiquing. It's so much fun! So I'm dragging Leroy with me." She takes a swig of beer. "_And_, Tony's Uncle Roy and his son, Adam, are coming to visit as well!" Gibbs makes a grunt of distaste and Abby apologises immediately. "Sorry, Leroy, I know it was supposed to be a surprise. But I just couldn't help it! You should know better than to trust me with this stuff. Although, there was that one time … with the thing … and my hands … and the stuff. And the girl, and the keys, and all of that in my room. But you know how difficult it was for me to keep that a secret! And when … when my ex was like," she drops her voice dramatically, "'_No, you can't tell Leroy that you've been seeing me_.' I told you in sign language! Yeah, that's right, sign language!"

None of us respond for several beats, until Tony snorts into my collar, prefacing long peals of laughter from all of us. Little do we know that we would soon have much more to laugh about.

* * *

Tony and I are just stumbling up the stairs at eleven. Gibbs and Babby are in their room; luckily, theirs is not being watched, and they have separate beds. Knowing that there are cameras in the curtains and the dresser is bugged, we must put on a good show, now that Buck has undoubtedly reported back to his conniving family that we are going to proceed in making love tonight.

I am the first into the room, and quickly discard my sweater. "David," I purr, turning around. "David, do you know what I want?"

"I assume you, once more, don't care about what's on TV …" Tony's eyes go wide as I approach the bed, lying down. Although I am fully clothed still, I can tell he is mentally taking off each article of clothing that I am wearing. And for some reason, I am perfectly okay with that.

He stands at the foot of the bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. _He takes far too long_, I think darkly and leap up to my knees, inches from him, shove his hands away, and finish undoing the buttons for him.

Tony pulls his white undershirt over his head and tosses it on the ottoman by the bureau. He grins and places his hands on my hips, stepping closer to the bed. The smile has lit up his face for only a moment before I have closed the distance between us, my lips on his, _basically devouring his face_. I fight to keep my nose from crinkling as I slow my kisses, wrapping my arms around his neck, placing a hand on the back of his head, and gently pull him closer.

He climbs onto the bed and we shift backward, me landing in a pile of pillows and Tony straddling me.

_Perhaps, just maybe, I can get away with…_I do not have time to execute my plan; he has stolen my idea. I feel his tongue softly stroke my bottom lip, gentle and tender as his mouth delicately cups mine. I feel my back arch, involuntarily raising my hips into his. A heat deep within me burns, slightly taking my breath away. Tony moans, a growl resonating from his throat.

From that point, my actions are based on instinct, not on conscious thought. My leg wraps behind him, and we flip over so that I am lying on top of him. Smirking, I pull away, fighting off a giggle as he groans in protest. "We needed this to be realistic, right?" I whisper in Tony's ear, just loudly enough to hear it. He chuckles, his chest hitting mine.

Tony's presses his lips along my jaw, nipping below my ear, trailing to my collarbone, where he struggles with my camisole. Wordlessly, he removes the satin, letting it slither to the floor.

My hands fly to his belt, slowly lifting the leather and pulling it through the buckle, tantalizing him, making him wait. As I work the button and zipper undone, I recapture his lips with mine, letting my tongue linger on his for a second too long, before I break away once more to rid him of his jeans.

Two strong hands lift me up off of his body and place me face up on the bed beside him. Turning over, Tony briefly stops to undo my jeans and slip them down my legs and off, carelessly allowing them to fall wherever they will.

In one fluid motion, we somehow make our way beneath the covers, and all I can feel is five-hundred-thread-count sheets, soft against my skin; his hands tangled in my curls and my fingers splayed against his back. This is what we have been missing the entire time—once we admit our chemistry, everything works smoother.

Both of us are half on the brink of losing ourselves and half consciously aware that this is a mission, and a show, and fake.

And for a moment, all I am aware of is the physical, what is right there in front of me: Tony above me, nipping at my neck, gripping my back, playing with my hair, grinding against my body; Tony, so raw, so vulnerable, so incandescently passionate that I almost cannot help but provide him with what he deserves; Tony, so handsome, so determined to succeed, even if the entire event would end before he could prove himself; Tony, so…perfect.

"David," I manage to sigh, before both of us relax into each other.

_It was worth it._

* * *

"You two need to figure out whether you're going to be loud, or what, because one minute we could hear you down the hall, and the next it was dead silent," Abby gripes the next morning, handing me an orange. We both woke up early to make 'our men' a hearty breakfast for moving day.

"Well, I apologise that we failed to entertain you, Babby." I chuckle as I zest the orange into the pancake batter. "Besides which, it is our house, and we just wanted to break it in a bit."

"Oh, thank heavens, you have the same ritual as I do." I stare at her in confusion. "What, you've never had 'Moving Day Sex' before?" Wide eyed, I shake my head. "Oh, Ana, you're missing out."

"What is 'Moving Day Sex'?" As I stir, I add vanilla and blueberries, gently folding them in. "And where is it done?"

Abby crosses the kitchen and stands sits on the island, her blue sweater—as uncharacteristic of Abby as it is—flaring out against the granite countertop. "I guess it can be done everywhere…but my favorite was when I moved into my new apartment, and—"

"Please tell me you're going to talk about how great the wall color was, Babs," Gibbs interrupts, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Otherwise, our private life shouldn't be publicized." He places a quick kiss on Abby's cheek and steals the newspaper from behind her. The headlines have not changed. "Our Seamen are still missing. Why'm I not surprised?" After a sip of coffee, he hums in appreciation. "Outstanding coffee, Ana."

Although it is his character to be loving and full of compliments, I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I know it is excellent coffee, because I _make_ excellent coffee. At least someone finally can acknowledge that. I do not, however, respond to his comment, and spoon pancakes onto the hot griddle in front of me instead.

Soon, the scent of blueberry pancakes has fully permeated the house, every nook and cranny, and I can only hope that Tony has gotten out of bed. After our show last night, even I was exhausted, but I had been determined to fit in my morning run and make my new family breakfast, even if it meant getting up at four.

_Anything for the ones I love…_


	7. This Is Gonna Hurt

_A/N: I'm on a roll, now. Hope you enjoy! Thanks for all of the reviews, once again._

* * *

As we sit in the kitchen, sorting through papers and taking notes, Tony has the brainstorm of calling to get the window fixed. Abby has already lifted seven prints off of the glass, and also off of nearly everything in the room. We cannot live with newspaper and cardboard covering the empty space for four months. While he dials, I scour the internet for 'things to do in Canandaigua.' _I will never tire of Google._

I am about to give up, knowing that there are few places Tony and I would both like to go together, seeing as we are not truly married, when I come across a small diner. The one thing my partner likes more than movies and girls is good food. And, I read, this 'mom-and-pop' restaurant has been in business for forty-six years, nearly forty-seven. That _must_ say something about the popularity. I bookmark the page and turn my attention over to his phone call, vowing to mention the diner after he hangs up.

"Hi, yes, I'd like to talk to Hank?" Tony mutters into the phone receiver. "Great, hi. My name's David Stadelvard and I just moved into a house on Watkins Road…Right, the old farm. Well, I'm not sure if it was in the news or not, but the house was broken into…Oh, it wasn't? Huh. That's odd." He scribbles a note onto a piece of paper and slides it to me.

_Wasn't reported_

I search for a pen and hurriedly scribble back,

_Do you want me to call and ask around?_

Tony shakes his head. "Okay, well, I was just wondering if you could come out and fix the window. I guess it was shattered when the guys broke in…You can? Oh, that's great. Thanks! Yup, see you around two." He hangs up the phone, looking very pleased with himself. "They'll be here around two tomorrow."

I nod in recognition. "David, where did Babby go?"

"Oh, Leroy took her into town. She wanted to scan something so they went to some special store." _As in, they went to the police department. Since when does Gibbs allow outsiders to help with cases?_

I smile. "Then we have the house to ourselves. Or at least some _time_ to ourselves …" My hand weaves itself around to the back of his head and I allow my fingers to tangle in his hair. "I was thinking we could…"

His eyes widen. "You didn't find …"

"Oh, yes," I nod. "Yes, I most certainly did." I grin and show him the website. "Second generation family restaurant, serving mostly natural foods and using only the finest ingredients, besides the fact that they—"

"That's that, then. We're going." Tony smiles and grabs my hand. "And, this gives us ample opportunity to ask around about Buck."

* * *

"Hohoho, _yeah_. Ana, how did you know what I like…" Tony smiles, eyes devilish. "I'd kiss you and hold your hand and whatever, but … my hands are kind of … a mess." He looks down, drawing my eyes again to his beautiful hands.

"I understand. I would prefer you _not_ getting Russian dressing on my clothes, thanks." I take another bite of the sandwich. I never thought a Reuben could be so delicious. In the past, I have enjoyed corned beef with cabbage for St. Patrick's day, courtesy of Ducky, and sauerkraut cake, thanks to Abby. McGee once bought me a salad with Russian dressing, and I know Gibbs loves rye toast. Swiss cheese is amazing on anything.

But to even consider putting each thing together in a sandwich, melt the cheese, and grill it all … The thought has always disgusted me. Nevertheless, today, I decided to try something new. An American meal, in a way. So I ordered the special: Reuben Sandwich, with a side of marinated cucumbers. Which brings us to present. And, I must say, I am completely satisfied.

"How did you even find out about this place?" Tony takes a sip of his iced tea and spears a cucumber slice. "You said it's been around for, what, forty-some-odd years?"

I nod and answer, "Yes, Tony. Forty-six years. I found it on the Chamber of Commerce website. _The Lafayette Motel and Restaurant._ We probably could have stayed here if Buck had not been so hospitable."

"Let's just hope he doesn't send us to the hospitable," Tony jokes, looking at the guest check. "Aren't Reubens usually more than that?" Seven-eighty apiece. "Huh, I guess I'm just used to that fancy place Ka—Er—Ducky used to take me to."

I dig in my purse for my wallet, stopping when Tony's hand comes down on mine gently. "David, you must let me pay for at least dessert." He does not remove his hand. "Drinks?" Nothing. "David!" I raise my eyes to his and set my jaw. "_Something_?"

"No. What's dessert?" At that moment, a waitress appears by the table.

"Couldn't help overhearing. We've got Triple Chocolate cupcakes, Blueberry Cheesecake cupcakes, elderberry pie, apple pie, and a fantastic strawberry chiffon pie." She gestures toward the dessert cases. "Everything was made right here. Elderberry is our specialty pie, but the owner's daughter loves the strawberry chiffon."

I eye the cupcakes. To prevent an argument, I decide to buy three cupcakes: one for Abby, so that she feels adequately recompensed; one for McGee, so he does not feel the urge to steal Abby's; and one for Gibbs, because as Leroy, he is openly warmhearted, and therefore, deserves a cupcake more than anyone I know. And … Abby secretly told me once that she had actually thought Gibbs had stolen her cupcake, and had been pretty surprised when she found out it had been McGee.

So, to put a fight on hold, three cupcakes are necessary.

Tony looks at me. I can read his face like a book. "And, one slice of elderberry pie—" _That's for me._ "—And the Strawberry Chiffon pie, please."

"Quite the sweet tooth," the waitress jokes. "Mmm, do you want your elderberry warmed?"

"Hmm. No, no, it will be fine. Thank you!" As she disappears to find us to-go containers, I turn my attention back to Tony. "You're drooling."

Aghast, Tony argues, "I am not!" _We will have to go for a walk later to burn off all of this…Or, perhaps something else…_

* * *

When we arrive back at the house, there is a large minivan parked in the circular driveway, and McGee is standing beside it, in some animated conversation with Gibbs. As we approach them, he turns and rolls his eyes. "Where have you _been_?" he complains. "I've been waiting for you for an hour."

Tony and I exchange amused looks and I reply simply, "We grabbed lunch," and hold out the box for Abby. "Here. They had cupcakes. Take your pick, and then Leroy. The third is for Tommy." I can feel Tony's chest shaking from behind me, and turn to find him doubled over in laughter. "David?"

"I … Tommy … drives … I can't … mommy-van!" is all he can get out before he collapses onto the gravel. When he has sobered enough to where he is still laughing, but can speak, he continues, "Tommy, seriously, a mommy-van? How many kids do you have?"

McGee stares at him in obvious irritation. "We have two kids, they're both on the soccer team, and we carpool. Susie—" _That must be either made up, or Megan._ "—insists on saving gas and time."

Tony nods, circling the car. "Yeah, I see that whole 'saving gas and money' thing." The younger agent smirks, rubbing it in that his superior agrees with him. "Must be really easy for you to save style, too." Tim's face immediately falls, and Tony sticks out his tongue mockingly. "Just kiddin', Tommy. What kind of brother would I be if I didn't pick on you once in a while?" He comes toward us, arms outstretched, and a big, mischievous grin spread across his face.

"Oh, no. You're not going to get me in a headlock this time. Not that easily," Tim states, backing up. "You might've gotten me at Christmas, but now I'm onto your tricks."

"What, a big brother can't give his l'il bro a hug? Come on," Tony murmurs, and Tim warily relents, only to be grabbed around the neck and given a … The name escape me. "_Noogie party!_" my partner shouts. Tim's 'Ow!'s and 'Hey!'s and 'David, let go!'s and 'Argh!'s fall upon deaf ears as the older agent playfully grinds his fist into his scalp.

Gibbs, Abby and I stand there, us girls not knowing whether to put an end to the obvious bullying or not, and Gibbs just watching with a glint to his eyes. Something tells me that he has been on both sides before. As Tony swings Tim around the yard, rolling about and playing—'roughhousing', I think it is called—a pick-up truck pulls in.

To my disappointment, the driver is Buck. He hops out of the truck and makes his way over to us, wringing his hat.

"Howdeh, neighbor," he greets me, not meeting my eyes.

"Hello, Buck. You have not met my in-laws." I turn to Gibbs, who already knows who Buck is, and introduce him. "Buck, my father-in-law, Leroy. And his…" Gibbs perks up.

"My _girlfriend_, Abby." There is a hint of a smile on the man's face as he looks at Buck, holding out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Buck."

"Nahce t'meet'cha, too, sir." There is a respect in Buck's voice that tells me he knows Gibbs, or 'Leroy', was a veteran. _I was a fool to think someone could never read a book by its cover…No matter how hard Gibbs tries, he will always be known as a Marine._ "Ah was jus' wonderin' if y'all'd heard from th'bank yet."

I had not noticed Tony and McGee fall silent and look over to see Tim sitting on the grass punching keys on his Blackberry, while Tony walks over to us. His gait shows his back is bothering him.

"No, Buck, we have not … Why would we have?" I inquire as Tony gingerly wraps an arm around my waist. "Was there a problem with the papers?"

Buck shakes his head adamantly. "Oh, no, ma'am. But ah guess y'all haven't seen th'news." We stare at him as if to say, 'What news?' He wrings his hat again, uncomfortable. "Th'bank's lost alotta money, `n they think it's been umbezzled'r'somethin'." I narrow my eyes unintentionally, giving Buck another once over. "So mah paw`n'ah were jus' tawlkin' `bout it `n ah thought ah'd come own down `n see if thur was a prollem."

I look up to see Tony's nose flare slightly, either out of suspicion or worry. Gibbs' face is tranquil, but I know his thoughts would prove otherwise, and Abby is fiddling with a loose piece of Styrofoam on the to-go box.

"We haven't heard anything … But thank you for telling us. We'll call and ask about it," Tony smiles, the previous expression of irascibility gone.

"Y'all're neighbors. Ah jus' thought ah'd check in with ya. Have a good naht!" With that, Buck spins on his heel, climbs into the cab of his truck, and slams the door. With a jolt, the truck comes to life and he is retreating down the road in minutes.

To no one in particular, but softly enough so only we can hear, Gibbs snaps, "He's hiding something."

* * *

Sleep avoids me like the plague since Somalia. There are so many reasons why, but I haven't the courage to discuss them with anyone, including Tony, even though he was the one who risked his life to save me from them.

Even though his strength, his determination, his pride, _his love_ is what saved me.

Even though here I lie, wrapped in his strong arms, determined to move on, proud of who I have become, and loving what I have earned, safe and sound, because of him.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, nuzzling the back of my neck.

I only manage an 'Mm?', too lazy to say much of anything else.

"Ana, are you awake?" Rolling my eyes, I press my lips together and grudgingly say,

"Yes, David." I roll over, so that I am lying flat on top of Tony, and look him in the eye. "What." Conscious that I probably sound miserable, I place a chaste kiss on his lips.

"You can't sleep either?" I shake my head. "Aw, baby …" He reaches up to kiss me, somewhat deeper this time. "Is it because of …?"

Tracing his collarbone, I manage, "I do not think so." For a woman who is two months pregnant, I know I have not shown signs of morning sickness or cravings, unless the Reuben counts as the latter. "I think there is something wrong with me."

"How can you say that?" Tony tucks a flyaway curl behind my ear. "You're perfect." I shoot him a disbelieving glare before tracing hearts and stars on his chest. "You're beautiful, and smart, and hilarious, and even though you don't really know that much about movies or pop culture, your effort is worth every breath." He nips right below my ear, and I find it difficult to decipher whether he is being sincere about his description of me, or just playing nice.

I shrug, letting my head fall down onto his shoulder, watching his chest rise and fall with each slow breath. "David?" I whisper, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"Yeah?" comes his voice out of the darkness; a bit raspy, but gentle, passionate, humble, and kind. So much like its owner.

So much like when he had been sat across from me in that straight-backed chair, hands tied behind him, lip split and bleeding, and had said, _Just couldn't live without you._ Tears well up in my eyes, but remain unshed, until I can calmly say,

"Thank you."

"For what, Ana?" An idle hand plays with my hair.

Considering for a moment how to phrase my appreciation, I simply murmur, "Everything."

* * *

I get up the next morning either very well rested or extremely overtired. After staring in the mirror for what seems like hours—but what has only been maybe five minutes—I change into my shorts and a sports bra and slip on a pair of socks. I tie my shoes and, before I leave the room, cast a placid look at Tony, who is sleeping soundly where I left him.

_The sun should be shining. The birds should be singing, the cows mooing, and the bees humming. Where is the country? Where is my dream?_ I shake my head, bound down the stairs and out the front door, counting ten lunges down the driveway. Before easing into a jog, I do my routine stretches and look around. Someone is sitting on the front porch of Buck's house. Naturally, I choose to run in the other direction.

Forty-five minutes later—and it only has taken that long because I decided to build a relationship with a lone calf in the barn—I return to the house and upstairs, intending to take a shower. When I enter the bedroom, however, I hear salsa music and counting, heavy breathing and the rattle of maracas.

And then I see it.

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, working out to _Zumba_.

After taking a closer look at the screen—the forty-inch plasma screen—I understand why. Fifteen scantily clad women, rolling their hips, smiling, laughing, dancing for him. And then Beto Perez, in all of his muscly, sweating glory, rips off his shirt and throws it aside, joining in full-swing.

"Aw, come _on_. It was better before _he_ had to ruin it," Tony complains between deep breaths. He is completely unaware that I am in the room, watching him, as he swivels and hops and 'works his abs,' as Beto instructs.

That is, of course, until I join in next to him.

"Ana! I didn't know you Zumba'd!" Taking in my appearance—which is almost an exact replica of the lead dancer's—he grins, a hungry gleam in his eyes. "It's pretty hot."

"I do not need to 'Zumba,' David. I simply know how to dance." The beat picks up and Beto and I begin to salsa. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tony half struggling with the steps. "No, no, no. Like this." I show him and, when I can see he plainly does not understand, move to stand behind him and put my hands on his hips. "This foot forward," I instruct, patting his left leg. "Then this one." His right. "Then this one. Now move your hips more. There you go…"

But he does not have it.

"May I ask you a personal question?" Tony nods, and I catch what may be a grunt escape his lips. "Have you ever gone to a club?"

"Well, yeah, of course I have. College, and whenever I was on land after that."

I spin around him and land swiftly before him. "And, have you ever … hm … how do you say it. _Zonah rakdaneet._" At his confused look, I translate to English. "Whore dancer. Seems a bit…harsh." I motion to my abdomen, hips, and backside. "Like, a cheese grater. Or a coffee grinder…yes! Yes, that is it. Grinding."

Tony laughs. "Yeah, what about it?"

"You have grinded—ground?—grinded before, yes?"

"Oh, yeah. _Plenty_ of times." He appears to reminisce for a moment before stating, "You know what I used to do at school dances, Ana?" I shake my head. "Not dancing."

"Well, there we are, then," I tell him matter-of-factly, ignoring his statement about school dances. It stings too much. "Think about how you moved. Side to side. In a circle. Correct?" Tony nods. "Same general idea."

"Miss Stadelvard," he hums, "are you asking me to dance?" I have no time to think before I am pulled tightly against his body, and we are swaying in time with the music. I can feel his breath on my neck, hot and seemingly longing.

My body seems to think for herself, my thoughts transported to nightclubs in Tel Aviv, and I am there again. Pounding music, steamy back rooms, frisky boys with flat-fronted trousers, unbuttoned vests, and bare chests. I feel my hips moving without my telling them to. The last time I have danced like this with a man…

"Michael," I gasp, suddenly breathless. Jumping away from Tony, I back slowly toward the door to the bathroom. When I am halfway there, I turn and run, slamming the door. Although he calls my fake name through the door, and texts me relentlessly, _Are you ok?_, I cannot tell him.

The less he knows, the better.

* * *

_A/N: So, I want you to know that, as my disclaimer, I must say that I do not own NCIS, **Zumba**, or Tiva. That is to say, I have NCIS on DVD, bought a copy of ZumbaFitness, and read Tiva on a regular basis. I do, however, own The Lafayette Motel and Restaurant, through my mum and grandma. The website: .com. Feel free to visit the website-it would be super cool to have your business too. This is not a solicitation, or an advertisement. I'm just merely pointing out what I do and do not own. :) Hope you enjoyed this one, guys! Love, Kat_


	8. Let the Flames Begin

_A/N: This one's a sad one, folks. In a way. I had a pretty rough day and I therefore sat down and wrote this. I'm pretty happy with it. And now, I'm ecstatic, because, guess what? Yeah, that's right, I just received the first part of my five-part order of seasons 1-5 of NCIS. Yep. Exactly. How psyched do you think I am? The answer is **very psyched**. Enjoy!_

_**Disclaimer**: I do not own You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling. The Righteous Brothers do...I **wish** I owned Michael Weatherly and Mark Harmon, but alas, they are the sole property of their wives. And that makes me very sad..._

* * *

It was not so much the fact that Michael and I danced that drove me into such a state. Any good boyfriend takes their girlfriend dancing, especially the travelling, adventurous types, and Michael was no exception to this. What resigned me to tears and locking myself in the luxurious bathroom was the fact that there were three instances where I had never felt more attractive, loved, and appreciated in my life. And now, as I sit by this gorgeous claw-foot tub, wallowing in both humiliation and self-pity, I realize my stupid mistakes each of the three times.

The first is the beginning of this entire mess with Tony. The one undercover mission as Canadian assassins. Although the sex was fake, and our roles were just that—parts to play—and half of our lines were scripted or prompted, I felt something blossom in my heart, something that kept growing long after the assignment had ended. He had held me, and it had felt right.

The second is the 'love' Michael had given me. Our trysts when he came to Washington D.C., kept secret from Tony; his worry over whether I was okay, when the bar was bombed in Morocco; his support when my father would yell at me … it had all added up to love somehow. But, he made me feel wanted, enjoyed, treasured. That is all I could have asked him for.

And then we come to the third, the very reason I cannot forgive myself. If I had just died in Somalia, we would not have this problem. When the sack had been lifted from around my body, and I had seen Tony sitting across from me, both solemn because of the situation and elated that I was still alive, and had told me that he _could not live without me_, something had clicked. Something, that day, had clicked. For the second since I had begun working for NCIS, my feelings were inexplicable.

I would not be sitting on the bathroom floor, with self-indulgent tears rolling down my cheeks, cursing the day Jenny Shepherd had suggested to my father that NCIS welcome a Mossad Liaison. But I cannot curse it, because if Director Shepherd had not offered the position, and had I not come here, I would never have met Tim or Abby. Gibbs would be a stranger; I would not have had to assassinate my own brother, of course, but his disloyalty would have gotten him into trouble someday anyhow. Ducky and Palmer would not have been able to regale me with stories, and my present job would not exist.

And I would not have fallen in love with Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. For that matter, I would not have met his father—_God rest his soul_—nor would I have come into contact with Jackson Gibbs. I would have never known about Shannon or Kelly, I would not have read McGee's book, and I would not have bought Abby a cupcake.

I would not know what Caf-POW is, nor how its order number had been tracked back to Somalia by four people who love and care about my safety, in order to save me from caffeine-addicted terrorists. In fact, I would have not been saved. I would still have been sent on the suicide mission, of course, as I have been part of Mossad, by blood, since birth. And, _when_ I was captured—as it is not a question of _if_ versus _when _once Eli is involved in something—I would never have been found, and most likely would have died one night after having my head bashed against the cement block walls.

There are many things that I would not have endured, lost, found, accepted, feared and conquered if I had not been assigned as the Mossad Liaison.

But it is my belief, as naïve or shallow or morbid as it may be, that even if I had never been hired by NCIS, I would have somehow gone through everything _bad_ that has happened to date. That being said, I would have also missed everything _good._ If Eli had turned down Director Shepherd's offer, I would have sat in the kitchen that morning, drinking my tea and reading the newspaper, then gone off with Michael to the public market. I would have wondered where Ari was, why he was not there.

Eli would have received a phone call while I was gone, and tell me with grievous eyes upon my return that Ari had been murdered. Livid, I would have booked a flight to Washington D.C. for that same afternoon, would have come to America, would have sought out who had killed my half-brother, and would have killed him in the same cold blood in which he had stolen Ari's life. I would not have had the compassion and daughterly feelings I have for Gibbs now, so I would have cared very little that Ari had almost killed him. And then, I most likely would have been taken into custody by NCIS. I would have been interrogated by Gibbs, or Tony. They would not have trusted me to restrain myself against killing McGee. The replacement for Kate would joke with whoever was behind the one-way mirror about how intense my eyes are. How strong my jaw is. How wild my hair is. How Tony was going to break me.

He would have stormed into the interrogation room, sat across from me, and stared me down. I would have looked into those beautiful blue irises, framed in the most glorious brown lashes, and lied to him.

_Of course I did not avenge my only brother's death. He was my __**half**__-brother. His murder means nothing to me_, I would have bitten out, my mouth twisting into a sinister smirk. Leaning across the table, sliding aside the pictures of the agent's dead body—completely intact aside from the clean, small hole at the base of his pretty, pretty skull—I would have murmured, _I do not believe in revenge._

He would have laughed at me, a gruesome, untrusting bark. _Oh, no? Then, why does the bullet our M.E. extracted from Agent Slater's brain match the one we found in your gun?_

I would have mirrored his laugh, only more haughtily. _**Half**__-brother_, would come my spat response, and I probably would have muttered, _Tipesh kmo naal. _

_Please speak in English, Davíd. We __**are**__ in America. Just because you're father's the director of Mossad, doesn't give you the right to kill our agent._

_And since when does NCIS have the privilege of murdering my family? _I would have hissed.

_When your __**half**__-brother killed my __**partner**__. __**Our**__ partner. Our __**agent.**_

But _I_am NCIS' agent now. _I_ am that agent. None of that happened. I was offered the position, I took it, and I gained something I had never had before. I gained a family.

I wipe the salty, drying tears away from beneath my eyes and stand. Taking deep breaths, fighting to maintain my composure, I unlock the door and take three slow steps out into the bedroom.

Although Tony is nowhere to be seen, I know he is still here. He is always here. I quickly strip down to my undergarments and throw on a beige hemp skirt and one of Tony's clean tee-shirts and murmur to myself, "Oh, what the hell."

* * *

"Ana," Gibbs greets softly as I step onto the front porch. He is seated beside Abby on a wickerwork couch, while Tony and McGee sit in respective wicker chairs. On a small table next to Tony sits an empty bottle of beer, another half-empty bottle sitting in his hands, and a glass of blush wine. Blush … _Israeli Apricot Wine._ The reminder of home hits my heart, knowing that he purposely bought it to make me feel better. I inwardly beg Tony to look up, to look into my eyes, to see my apology, but he continues staring down at Gibbs' notebook.

My stomach in knots, I walk across the porch and sit on a stool next to Abby. Much to my embarrassment—more caused by myself than the question—she nudges me and says, "I heard a door slam upstairs. Everything okay with you and Dave?"

I blink twice, my eyes flitting to Tony for a split second, hoping that perhaps Abby's question caught his attention, but he is still focused on the notebook. Nodding, I slowly begin, "Yes … I believe everything is fine."

"Didn't sound it to me," Gibbs mutters, his piercing gaze suddenly on me. I cower, much like I have seen suspects do during interrogation. My mind returns to my imaginary hell, where his blue eyes penetrate my soul. I fight off a shudder and look away.

I am about to manufacture a long and possibly Ducky-worthy story of what happened when Tony pipes up. "There was a breeze. Blew the door shut behind Ziva when she went into the bathroom."

"Why were you up there for so long, though?" Abby asks, quickly becoming maternal as always. "Is it, like, morning sickness? Or something you ate? Do you feel sick?"

"No, Abby, I am fine." Reconsidering, I backtrack. "Actually, I did feel a bit nauseous, but now I feel better." Still trying to catch Tony's eye, and failing miserably, I cough. My throat has gone dry, remembering my dismal thoughts about _what could have been_ versus _what is_. Recalling Tony's disappointed, upset features and cold eyes in the interrogation room, what could have happened had I not been an NCIS agent, returns the upset and coiling sensation to my stomach.

"Want a drink? We bought you some nonalcoholic wine while you were holed up by the toilet." Abby reaches across Gibbs, all but crawling onto his lap, and retrieves the wine glass. She comes very close to spilling it on the hand-off to Tony, who looks at her like she has lost her mind. "Give your wife the wine, Davie."

He wordlessly holds the glass out to me. When I take it from him, I am careful to deliberately let my fingers linger on his. His jaw tenses and he lets go of the stem of the glass; it is fortunate I have a good hold on it.

"Thank you," I murmur, taking a sip. It is most definitely _not_ non-alcoholic, but the label on the bottle is very convincing. "I have not had wine in—"

"You'd better say, 'two months.' I don't want my potential Marine grandson starting out deaf or something," Gibbs admonishes jokingly, taking a slow sip of bourbon. "You and my son're gonna be great parents." I snort. _Sure, we are. Just marvelous._

It is then that Tony decides to look at me.

* * *

I drudge up the stairs after receiving the 'We need to talk' look that I have been dreading. Deciding to finally tell him everything, I head into a room I know is not bugged in any way.

I tensely perch on the window seat and Tony follows me, pulling the floral printed ottoman over and sitting on it. For a while, he stays silent, watching me with those big eyes, and they are blue-green. Confusion and anxiety fill them.

Tony drops his head and steeples his hands. He finally says gently, "So what was that back there?" They are his first words to me in hours.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I shrug and state flatly, "What was what, Tony?"

"Hey." His voice is suddenly very stern. My eyes snap up to his. "You know what I'm talking about, and I guess I'd like some answers."

I want to say, _Answers about what? Somalia?_ but decide that it is too harsh for the load of compassion he is putting into this. Instead, I frown. "I guess I do not know what you want to know."

He only looks at me for a few minutes before hesitantly explaining, "When you were in the bathroom, you said some stuff, and it sort of got to me."

"What did I say?" My heart starts beating faster, a light flush coming to my cheeks.

"You said you didn't 'avenge your brother's death.' That you didn't believe in revenge … You laughed, you cried, you sobbed. No matter how much I knocked on the door, you wouldn't let me in. And then you said something in Hebrew, and accused NCIS of killing your family …" Tony trails off. I look at him in soft realization. My responses to his imaginary interrogation were not only in my head, but said aloud. Although I feel humiliated, I give him a small smile. It must be bitter, because he narrows his eyes analytically, trying to see past my positive exterior.

He has always been one of the few people who can break down my walls. I sniff and gaze out the window. "I was thinking."

"About what?" he prompts. When I fail to answer, he places his hand on mine and murmurs, "Ziva? You know you can trust me, but if you don't want to talk about it—"

I cut him off crisply. "I was thinking about the past." Tony says nothing and although I make no move to continue yet, I allow him to wrap his fingers around mine. After thinking about how to phrase my next words, I resume. "I was thinking about what my life would have been like if I had never become part of NCIS."

I hear him take in a sharp breath and anticipate another question, but am greeted with silence and a soft squeeze of my hand. "What you heard were my responses to you," I explain, "and it was only a plausible conversation in the event I had not accepted Director Shepherd's proposal for Mossad Liaison."

Tony is silent and I can tell he is considering my words. "Ziva, you know I—_we_—would never think you were responsible for Ka—Agent Todd's death …"

"It was not a question of Kate's death, Tony. It was purely hypothetical." I pause briefly before glancing at him. I can see the desire in his eyes to understand how I feel, and what I am thinking. I return my gaze to the window and murmur, "I came to a conclusion, though."

"And what would that be?" he presses, scooting closer, either intentionally or subconsciously.

I at first refuse to look at him and then remember that he _was_ the one to discover I had been captured by terrorists. He was the one that pressured Director Vance to find me. And he was one of the two people who risked their lives to save me. I turn my head, looking deep into his eyes.

"That even if I had not taken the position with NCIS, I would still have met you. All of you. But not in the right way." I let my legs down over the edge of the window seat, inches from his. "That I still would have been sent on the suicide mission, that I still would have been captured, and that there are only two things that would have been different."

Tony stares at me, his jaw set, most likely out of worry. "What are the two things?"

I look down at his hand entwined with mine and then back up at him. "The first is that I would have died in Somalia." When I do not continue, he rubs his thumb across my knuckles.

"And the second?"

I hesitate before murmuring, "I would not be friends with you." I bow toward him and place a chaste kiss on his lips before pulling away and smiling, fighting the prickling in my eyes.

Tony's voice is husky when he next speaks. "What does 'tipesh kmo naal' mean?"

"It is a Hebrew insult."

"What does it mean?"

I sigh and translate, "Loosely, 'stupid like a shoe.' But … even a theoretical Ziva would have known you are not."

"Why did you say it?"

"I was angry with you for calling Ari my brother." I look away, ashamed that my imagination had run so far away from me. "The entire conversation was with you. You were interrogating me for murdering Kate's replacement, since I was not there to fill in. The replacement executed Ari. I avenged his death."

"Oh, Zeev…." I open my mouth to tell him not to pity me when he places a finger at my lips and spins around. "Did you hear that?" he whispers.

"Hear what?" I get up and follow him, but he whips back around and shoves me to the floor. "Tony, _what are you doing_?"

"Sh! Hold on. And stay there." Tony creeps to the door and opens it only a millimeter or less. "Ziva, do you have your gun?"

I shake my head. "No. Gibbs told me I could not have it." Reaching under my skirt, I pull the MOD automatic knife from its band. "This is more easily concealed. Why do I need it, though? Were we made…?"

Tony shakes his head, raising a long finger to his lips. I watch him curiously as he motions for me to move to stand beside him, and I heed his silent order. No heat emanates from his body as usual, a sure sign he is terrified. Whenever he is frightened, his body stops producing heat, and somehow, I can always tell.

He slowly opens the wooden door further and inches out into the hallway, taking a Derringer from his pocket. I know I am not supposed to speak, so I refrain, vowing to ask him later…if we survive.

I follow Tony into the hallway and head in the opposite direction from him. Looking in all four rooms at that end of the corridor, I whisper, "Clear." I hear his response and go back into the hallway, knife out. We slink down the stairs and part, checking the entire downstairs. Except for the kitchen.

Where we both know it would be safer to have backup. We greet each other with another loud whisper of, "Clear!" before nodding at each other from either side of the entry to the kitchen. I can hear a knife chopping, something sizzling in a pot, unfamiliar voices mixed with some interspersed well-known ones, and a sudden loud crash. Without delay, we both rush into the kitchen, prepared to fight back.

And we are greeted with Chicken Curry and a very startled Abby Sciuto.

"Babby?" I gasp, quickly stashing my knife in my pocket. "What are you doing?"

The goth girl giggles and is accompanied by Gibbs, who wraps an arm around her shoulders. It is plain to see that they are far from drunk, but do indeed put on a good show.

"We were'm…talking. Right, baby?" Abby slurs before continuing, "You two were upstairs havin' some lovin'!"

Gibbs squeezes his eyes shut and jumps away from Abby. "Leroy?" Tony snaps. "Dad, are you okay?"

Out of nowhere, our boss breaks into dance, and then pauses, looking at us with wide eyes. "_You've lost that lovin' feelin', whoa, that lovin' feelin'. You've lost that lovin' feeling. Now it's gone ... gone ... gone ... whoaaaaa_," he sings, putting emphasis on the words 'lost' and 'gone.' As he serenades us, he glances over our shoulders at the phone and we suddenly understand.

Someone has disappeared.

* * *

_A/N: I feel it is necessary to express to you my feelings about Mark Harmon singing You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling.__ Like...As though I must explain myself. So, here goes. A young Mark Harmon, in my opinion, looks very much like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. So. There you have it._


	9. All These Things I Hate

_A/N: Howdy. I had been hoping to get this chapter up last night, but that didn't work out. My best friend moved away for college and I was working on a care package for her. Anyway, it's up now, right! That's alllll that matters. ::wink:: Don't think this is the end of the mission. Gibbs said four months and he means four months. _

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own NCIS or its actors or its affiliates...I do, however, own the first, second, and sixth seasons on DVD, and that will soon become all of them. I also do not own John Wayne or TMC. Bummer, dude.._

* * *

Tony and I sit on the bench by the dinner table, his arms around me, as I huddle away from the cold realization seeping into my body. He softly smoothes my hair, placing a kiss on my temple. I shiver, but it is not from his touch. Rather, it is because of the fact I now know why this case has been so important.

It involved a marine, first of all. Second, if the Damocles was taken down amongst several other ships, this is more terrorist action than anything else. Third, if the terrorism is related to embezzlement or drugs, we have more than just a little danger on our hands.

And now that Buck has gone missing, I believe there is much, much more than that.

"I wanna pull you," Gibbs mutters. McGee and Abby have successfully debugged the entire house, now that our prime suspect has disappeared, and we do not have to watch our words, just our actions. The blinds and curtains are pulled in the kitchen, preventing much air flow through the room and house. "Both of you. Our guy knows we know." McGee, frantically typing on his laptop, is breaking into a sweat. "What've you got, McGee?"

"Boss, I don't know if this is related at all, but, Lance Corporal Jackson's brother was on one of the ships that was bombed," he offers, still typing. "I wonder if—"

Abby, also looking up information on her own laptop, jumps in, "No! Timmy! I mean, _Tommy_—I like 'Tommy' better, don't you, Gibbs?" Grinning, she turns to see his straight face. Characteristic of the Gibbs from D.C., one eyebrow is raised. Without having to hear his stern voice say, 'Abby!', she rambles on, "Oh, right, okay. So, _Tommy_, there is no plausible way that Lance Corporal Jackson's brother is related to this case. You wanna know why?"

McGee nods, prompting Abby to giggle, "Good, because I was going to tell you anyway." She spins her monitor around and points to the left side of her screen. "Okay, this is the fecal matter that Tommy collected from the crime scene."

"What does this have to do with our investigation, Abs?" There is just enough bite to his voice to make Abby jump to attention.

"_Because_, Leroy," she murmurs thoughtfully, enjoying the opportunity to call Gibbs by his given name without a consequence, "I tested the feces and, like the rings, it showed similar DNA to Lance Corporal Jackson's."

Gibbs, sensing there was more to the story, grunts, "But…?"

And Abby jumps right back into her story. "_But_, it wasn't the same. It was different for one gene, and that was hair color."

I make a face. "Hair color? But, Abby…that proves very little. Many people have several different hair colors. Take Tony, for example. He has brown hair on his head, but his beard—"

The Goth girl interrupts, "Which is getting kinda scruffy, by the way. You might wanna shave that soon." _I like it…_ "Sorry, continue!"

"—his facial hair is more blond. How can that lead us to the killer? Or Jackson's relative?"

"_Because,_ Ziva," she groans testily, "that means that someone other than Jackson and his killer witnessed the murder. Someone related to him."

Gibbs props his elbow on the table. It is plainly written on his face that he is growing more and more agitated. "Who was it?"

"I'm getting there, Leroy! Our guy's name is…" We lean in under the suspense, and I can feel Tony's chest pressing into my back. Somehow, I feel safer knowing he is so close. "Robert Andrews."

I throw a concerned glance around the table. "Wait, that is Buck's full name, is it not?"

"Sure is!" Abby states cheerfully, shutting her laptop.

Our boss stands and starts for the door, grabbing his jacket off of the coat hook. "McGee, you're with me. Someone's got it out for Jackson's family." He casts his stern eyes upon us once more and mutters at me and Tony, "You two, find out why. And don't leave the house," before sweeping out and down the front steps.

* * *

Abby has cooked us an Indian cornucopia for dinner. Chicken Curry, basmati rice, and Channa Dal Payasam, which is similar to a sweet (but savory) pudding. I am surprised that Tony ate anything at all, seeing as he is such a picky eater, but he is just spooning his third serving of chicken onto his plate as I stand to put my own in the sink. After such a heavy meal, and such a harrowing afternoon, I know that meditation will be necessary.

I had anticipated excusing myself quietly from the kitchen, but the moment I step into the hallway, Tony has cleared his plate into the waste bucket, grabbed a beer and bottle of wine, and rushed to my side.

"I can maneuver the stairs by myself, Tony." I chuckle and make for the first step, when his arm shoots out and he grabs a hold of my wrist. "Is something wrong?" Turning, I search his face for a sign for me to be concerned. I find nothing.

"Gibbs is worried. He doesn't usually get that way, especially when something so trivial happens." Tony pulls me down next to him, looking down at me. "It makes me wonder if we're in danger, too."

Shaking my head, I feel obligated to assuage his fears. "I would feel more paranoid if that were the case, Tony. Gibbs' orders were for us to not leave the house. He said nothing about leaving the kitchen. We are safe, you are here, Abby can kill people with any of the chemicals she has in her bag, _we are fine._"

I can tell that he is not entirely assured, but his mien begins to show otherwise. "Well, fine. But I'm coming upstairs with you." Tony takes me by the shoulders and points me toward the stairs. "There's a special on The Duke tonight at nine on TMC." In a facetious attempt to make me go faster, he gently taps my bum. I turn around, eyes narrowed playfully.

"That is fine," I agree, nodding. "I will take the stereo into another room for my meditation, then." His eyes pop open. "Is there a problem?"

"_Ye-heahhh_, there's a problem. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Like I said, Gibbs is worried. If he's got cause for concern, there's obviously something wrong." Pursing my lips, unable to argue with his logic, I continue up the stairs and into the master bedroom to change into my pajamas.

Without thinking, I grab the first pair I see in the drawer, briefly forgetting the fact that it is the Turkish silk set that my father bought me as repayment for the summer. Ignoring the fact that Tony has followed me into the room, I change and toss my other clothes into the hamper. As I make my way toward the door, I retrieve the small stereo Tony had packed and two of my meditation CDs from beside it.

"What room're you going to be in, Zeev?" Tony asks, hopping up onto the bed and lying back onto the pillows. "I dunno if Gibbs is coming back here tonight. He'd better, or Abby's going to have a coronary." Flicking the remote at the television, he grins as the screen comes to life. He does, however, mute the volume and sit up to look at me. "Nice PJs, Davíd."

"Eli bought them for me," I respond stiffly. "Thank you, though."

"For?" Without letting me answer, he mumbles, "That what they're wearing in Tel Aviv now?"

I nod curtly before retreating into the hallway. We have not yet confronted the obvious chemistry between us and I do not want to fall to the temptation eating away at my stomach.

* * *

After I plug in the stereo, I sit with my feet on each knee, picking up one of the CD cases. My best friend from Israel had sent them to me for Christmas my first year as a Mossad Liaison with NCIS. They reminded me of home, the _real_ home. Luckily, they had been in my desk drawer at Headquarters during the entire Michael ordeal, and had therefore survived the explosion—and demise—of my apartment.

Thoughts of Tony intersperse themselves into my decision of what track to start with. I am torn between the fourth and sixth, but finally decide upon the fourth. Jim Brickman has always had a way with connecting piano keys to my heartstrings.

Closing my eyes, I try to find peace and mentally clear all thoughts from my head. I slow my breathing and try to focus on the things that make me happiest.

_Tea. Jasmine Green Tea. From Tazo. Jasmine Green Tea from Tazo and a book. A book about flowers. A book about flowers and rain. A book about flowers and rain and rose petals. About flowers and rain and rose petals and sunshine. Jasmine Green Tea from Tazo and a book about flowers, rain, rose petals, sunshine, and sad endings._

The song ends and a faint wood flute signals the beginning of the next song. I am transported to a desert, far from an oasis, far from any live species, especially humans. As I wander along, I see a truck parked in the sand, smoke billowing from under its hood. Two men hop out of either side, and a large encampment manifests behind them. The sweat beading on my forehead and the cold feeling the pit of my stomach tells me all I need to know.

The men are Tony and McGee, and this desert place is Somalia.

Before I have to force my eyes open and stop the nightmare that is about to ensue, the stereo clicks and I am greeted by the next song. Fluid notes of piano trickle into my ears and, as my breathing calms again, I can sense there is a small smile on my face.

Behind my eyelids, images materialize and then disappear quickly. Every few seconds, I see Tony's face, grinning madly at me, speaking inaudible words, his eyes sparkling beautifully. Memories of our past undercover assignment flash in and out. The moment we met. The second I woke up tied to a pole, with SecNAV seated before me, asking me not to turn him in for smoking Cuban cigars, when Tony walked in and unlocked the handcuffs. These memories blaze in the back of my eye sockets, but it is not an unwelcome or uncomfortable feeling.

And then, just as soon as these images appeared, they are gone completely, and my mind is finally at rest. I sit there for what seems like only a few minutes, as I am completely oblivious to the music and conscious thought now, until the door opens and someone slowly walks over to the bed. The creak of the bed frame makes me briefly wonder who is with me, but I am too relaxed to open my eyes and turn around. They do not say anything, so I am not worried.

I slowly open my eyes, and blink when I realize I am sitting in the middle of pitch black. Easing out of my meditation position, I stand and unplug the stereo. When I turn around, I see Tony sitting on the bed. _So that is who came in …_

Without having to ask him, he answers my question. "I heard Jim Brickman, and thought I'd sit in and listen."

I let out a tinkling laugh. "And watch me meditate." Shrugging, I add, "It was no distraction, so there was no harm done."

He squirms uncomfortably but tries to disguise it as a shift in his weight. "Gibbs called, too." My eyes snap to his, and I feel my face tense. "He's pretty sure he knows where Buck is."

"Where is he? Did he kill again?"

Tony shakes his head. "Uncle Roy says it's not Buck we have to worry about."

* * *

Abby is not the only teammate who is insistent on upholding our characters. Although we have the entire house debugged, there is nothing to say we are not being spied on with either infrared cameras from down the street, or even something as simple as a telescope. There is credible cause for caution.

I sit cradled in Tony's lap on the couch, sipping my tea, with a John Wayne movie playing in the background. One of my hands is wrapped around the side of my mug, while the other is entangled in his.

To be honest, I _am_ rather concerned. Although Buck is not the murderer, someone is after his family. Since Tony and I have been in close contact with him, we have a greater risk. All of our team does, now that they have all met the farmer.

"You're scared," Tony whispers into my ear. His stubble brushes against my skin, and his warm breath tickles my neck. He buries his face in the crook of my neck.

"So are you." I sigh, settling into him. "Do we not have good reason to be? We could be next."

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say that's why Boss said we have to stay in the house." Tony rubs his thumb across my knuckles.

"But that would make us sitting hens," I murmur, taking another sip of tea. I feel his chest rumble below me briefly. "I got it wrong again, didn't I?" I ask in discouragement.

"Yes. But I knew what you meant." There is a pregnant pause, during which I make an actual effort to pay attention to the film, until he softly says, "It's kind of cute."

I turn my face toward his, confusion easily readable on my features. "Our being possible victims is cute?" Tony frowns, seemingly frustrated. "What else could be cute?"

"Your misusage of American idioms." He sighs heavily and states, not necessarily for me to answer, "When I said I was tired of pretending, I meant it."

_Oh. The elevator, after I broke orders. When we were trying to save DOMINO. Fantastic._

I sip slowly on my tea, remembering that event. I had been torn, the entire time, between fighting to protect Tony and standing down to protect myself. Ultimately, I had chosen to defend him, which led to the capture of both of us. I had never been certain from the moment he had stormed out of the elevator whether he had purely meant the corruption and kept secrets in the case we had been working on, or his feelings toward me.

But, when I had said the words 'So am I,' I had been referring to my feelings for him. And that had hurt very badly, the not knowing, the uncertainty, the awkwardness, and the danger I had put myself in for him. I hesitantly get out, "I broke orders. I said it would not happen again."

Tony sarcastically murmurs, "Oh, yeah. How'd that work out for you?" Although his tone is snide, his hand is gentle, as he plays with my fingers. "Sorry. That came out wrong…"

"You are referring to the suicide mission," I state matter-of-factly. "I did not break orders. Ben did." He remains wordless, but wraps his other arm around me. "In truth, the only 'suicide' part of the mission was my choice to go on it. Ben had been ordered to kill me, by Eli. I am almost sure of it. I would have either been murdered by Michael or Ben." I pause for a moment before finishing softly, "I am not sure which I would have preferred."

Once more, Tony kisses the back of my head and gives my hand a squeeze. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand."

Shaking my head, with newfound determination to get all of the words out once and for all, I launch into the horrid details of both the suicide mission and my captivity in Somalia. As I tell him of the more macabre parts, I can feel my eyes begin to prickle, and I will myself not to let the tears fall. Though he remains silent, I know it is one of two reasons; the first, he is angry and attempting to keep a strong grip on his composure, or the second, he is shocked and trying to purge images from his mind. I could only be so lucky.

"I thought I was going to die there. I told you that." Reconsidering, I breathe, "Or did I not?" It has been far too long since I have discussed any of this. My report, in all of its mocked up glory, had been on Director Vance's desk the morning I returned to NCIS headquarters. For each question, section, and title, I had cleaned up what had happened. During my psych evaluation, too, and polygraph, I would not expand on statements or questions asked. The only person who knew what had truly happened there was Saleem, and me.

And one of us was dead.

"Zeev?" Tony pulls me closer and I am too lethargic from the overflow of emotions to push him away. It is impossible for me to prevent the tears, as I have only just realized that I am crying. "You don't have to tell me. Forget it. You can talk about it when you're ready. Just … forget I asked."

But that is the problem.

_I can never forget._

Never will I be able to purge from my memory the images of Saleem, standing over me, the fly of his dirty cargo pants undone, his nauseating manhood protruding from it; Saleem, demanding that I perform ghastly favours for him whenever he asked; Saleem, raping me and hitting me, binding me, kicking me, flogging me with hooked whips, allowing his other men to violate me in ways I had never known possible.

I had not been the only woman. No, no, I had been one of three.

I was the only one who survived. I was the only one who had enough self-loathing to agree to such sordid activities. I was the one who _wanted to die_.

And I was the only one who would never forget.

* * *

_A/N: `Kay. So, before I get yelled at for not having Tony care more about Ziva's story, I just wanna explain. Not a cop-out, just so you all know. I have read fan pieces (very, very **good** fan pieces, of course) that have Tony freak out when he hears what happened to Ziva in Somalia. This is a plausible reaction, and I agree with it. But I believe that there is another realistic reaction, and that is shock. Pure and utter shock. And for Tony, I think it would be that of silence. And then, a few days later, he would re-approach the topic. So.. just stick with me here. :)_

_Ziva's pajamas (I totally want them, they're so pretty): .?ID=483212&cm_mmc=LINKSHARE-_-n-_-n-_-n&LinkshareID=8T80SibTww_

_Feel free to pick up a pair. I don't own them :)_


	10. Put Your Hands On Me

_A/N: I am ashamed of myself. This chapter is, for the most part, 'fluff' in its purest state. I don't think 'purest' is a word...but, just pretend it is. I'm sorry it's been such a long wait. This chapter fought be tooth and nail. Actually, that's pretty accurate, because I broke a nail halfway through, and I'm pretty sure Tony bit me. That's beside the point, though. I do not own **Julie & Julia**, **The Untouchables**, Turner Classic Movies (Which, for the record, I screwed that abbreviation about ten million times in chapter nine. I apologise for my mistake), Gene Kelly, Julia Child, AMC, or any other copyrighted person/film/piece of work I may have mentioned in the following chapter. Nor do I own NCIS, more specifically Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Bummer. Okay, go read. I'm done. Kat._

* * *

My eyes flutter open and I blink several times against the offending light that is shining through the windows. The only thing I can smell is cologne and leftover Indian food from the night before. Two arms are wrapped around me, my tea mug is set on the floor, and another movie is softly playing on the television. I can only imagine what this means.

_I fell asleep with Anthony DiNozzo._ I feel heat rush to my cheeks and grimace, hoping he cannot sense it. Shifting my weight, I start to get up from the couch in the least disruptive way possible, but as soon as I move a centimeter, Tony's arms tighten.

"Well, good morning, Sunshine," he murmurs. "Must say, I've always been scared of the thought of waking up to you for fear that you'd kill me…But this isn't too bad." My stomach turns over. He has been awake for far longer than I. As if in response to my thoughts, he adds, "I've been up since six. Was gonna make myself some coffee, but I didn't want to wake you up, so I just kinda sat here for a while."

I nod, still fighting off both grogginess and embarrassment, not to mention confusion. "What…what film are we watching now?"

"_The Untouchables._ Sean Connery, Kevin Costner, Andy Garcia. Great flick." He yawns into my hair and I expect him to have horrible morning breath. "Hey, I hope you didn't mind, but I finished off your green tea when I woke up …"

_Ahh, that would be why his breath is fresh while not having brushed them._ "It is fine. You are welcome to my tea whenever you want it."

I feel him chuckle beside me, the rumbling low in his body. "I will keep that in mind, Ana."

Sighing, I begin to ask why he is using our married fascia. "Are we using—" Tony cuts me off with a kiss below my ear.

"I would imagine married couples around the world use their spouses' first names, love." _As in, we are using our disguises again until Gibbs tells us otherwise. Fabulous._ With this knowledge, I know I am expected to follow suit, and I therefore rest my head in the crook of Tony's elbow. "You're looking gorgeous this morning, Miss Ana." He places a kiss in my hair, his face lingering as if smelling my shampoo. "And you smell very good."

_I could say the same for you._

* * *

We have stayed put all morning on that couch watching movies, only moving twice: once when I had to use the bathroom, and the other time when Abby demanded we eat breakfast in the kitchen. Otherwise, we have been completely mesmerized with the television, and possibly each other. AMC is featuring Gene Kelly, TMC is still showing John Wayne, and The Biography Channel is running _Julie &Julia_ all day.

Neither Tony nor I have voiced a word about the case or Gibbs, who Abby says returned at one the previous night. He had not spoken to her, however, and had instead crawled into his bed in silence after giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. We still know nothing more about Buck's disappearance or Lance Corporal Jackson. All we can do is lay on the couch for hours, watching films endlessly until we are approached. What else would a newlywed, pregnant couple do?

Other than fool around, which, I have a feeling, Tony is looking forward to.

So, when McGee and Abby come into the living room and announce that they are going to The Company Store for 'some hardcore antiquing,' as Abby put it, we know that although they have secured the house and placed bugs and cameras in every room, we are relatively alone.

I am trying my best not to blush when Meryl Streep, portraying Julia Child, strains a manicotti shell from a boiling pot of water and lets out a cheer. "These damn things are hot like a stiff cock!" she warbles, dropping the shell back into the pot. Tony lets out a growl in my ear, shifting his weight beneath me.

"Are you alright, dear?" I murmur, raising a hand and blindly feeling for his hair. I run my fingers across the back of his head, scratching his scalp softly, reveling in how indulgently silky each short strand is.

Tony's lips find their way to my shoulder, and he gently places them upon my skin, sucking his way, inch by inch, to my neck. A shiver goes down my spine and I, after a short gasp, instinctively turn my head away, granting him more access. I am suddenly flipped over and he is on top of me. He searches my eyes before choosing to search my mouth, taking no extra time before lightly running his tongue across my bottom lip.

"David," I finally gasp, pulling away, "Should we not move this to the—"

"Babs and Tommy'll be back soon, Ana. I don't think we have time…" I nod and reach up to reinitiate the kiss, wrapping my arms around his neck. _So this is what he always meant by a 'quickie'…_

As things grow more passionate, and the closer we press ourselves to each other, I can tell we have both thrown caution to the wind and are, while remaining conscious of the dangers at hand, partly ignoring the mission. This does not, however, erase my shock when his hand finds its way down between his hips and mine.

"David…" I hope that my moan is both believable for whoever is watching us, and enough to pause Tony. "David, I am not ready for—" His lips leave mine and his warm breath is at my ear.

"I know. I'm not going to do anything. Just … pretend I am, would you?" Tony whispers, nipping right below my ear. His hand, true to his word, remains stationary, occasionally brushing against my thigh, but never dipping toward where it normally would have.

Although his ministrations are completely staged, I _am_ expected to return them. But I cannot. After digging up the terrors from Somalia the previous night, I can only allow myself to let him do whatever he wants. After fifteen minutes of squirming, gasping, and giggling beneath him, he grins at me, sending me a signal that it is time for this to end. Amazingly, I have broken into a sweat. I utter a horribly authentic scream of faux pleasure and allow myself to go limp.

Since only I can see Tony's face, as close as it is to mine, I stare up at him. Incredulity is etched across his rugged features. He, too, is sweating, and his eyebrows are raised, allowing me to see clearly into his eyes. His breathing is deep; every inhale presses his diaphragm into my abdomen. _He is actually quite sexy …_ I say nothing. Neither does he.

Until he sticks his tongue out and grins, joking, "You _would_ know how to fake the Big-O, wouldn't you?"

"I have never faked an orgasm in my life, David." _And I never would, not for you._

* * *

When we finally decide to leave the living room, McGee and Abby still have not returned. While I cast a smile at Tony, I am really twisting and turning on the inside. He hugs me and then pulls back, placing a gentle hand on my abdomen and an even gentler kiss on my cheek.

"It'll be okay, Ana," he reassures, "Everything will be okay."

I skip up the stairs and toward the bedroom when I see someone on the outside landing. I freeze and Tony runs into the back of me. Without saying a word, I point out the window. He draws his Derringer from his pocket and holds it concealed in his hand as he makes his way toward the door. Motioning for me to go into the closest room possible—in this case one of the guest bathrooms—Tony continues down the hall toward the door onto the landing.

Before I close the door completely, I send up a silent prayer that he may remain safe.

Soon, while I wait with bated breath for Tony to return to me, I hear dialogue.

"Excuse me, but who are you and why are you on our property?" my 'husband' asks, concern heavy in his voice.

"Who said it was yer property, son?" Another Southern voice—not Buck's, for his was higher and this new speaker is deep and husky—responds rudely. "Ah worked this land fer forty-fahv years, `n ah'm not getting' off nobody's property jus' a-cuzzin' they tell me so."

There is a long pause, during which I can imagine Tony staring at him calculatingly. Finally, he speaks. "The papers were signed two days ago. Legally, that means that the property is in fact ours, and that we can tell whoever we want to get off of our land."

"Ah have a raht t'be hurr, sonny. Jus' a-cuzzin' y'sahned some papers don't mean ah gotta get off this hurr land."

"Actually, it kind of does. You're trespassing on my soil, and if I called the PD right now, I have a strong feeling they'd back me up." Tony's voice is becoming more and more strained. I can tell he is fighting the urge to push this man over the ledge.

"Oh yeah? Mah nephew was born in this hurr house, mister, `n ah'd say Arnie was a better man then alla'yous. My son Buck'd say th'same."

"Arnie?" Tony repeats. In my mind's eye, I see him, staring the man down, never letting his hand falter, never raising the gun, though keeping it ready in his left palm. "Who's 'Arnie'?"

"Arnie's mah nephew, y'dumb son'uv'a'bitch!"

"What's his last name, sir?" The suddenness of Tony's polite tone tells me more than I have ever been able to tell about him. The sharp, abrasive attitude in the Southern man's voice reminds him of his father, when he would admonish Tony as a young boy for one thing or another, always unloving, always uncaring, never fatherly or affectionate. And this scratchy, angry tone scared him. It always would.

"Jackson. Whatsit t'you?" In that moment, I can tell that this man is not only Buck's father, but Lance Corporal Jackson's uncle.

Quickly covering, I hear Tony laugh and say, "Ooh. That's not the Arnie I knew. Mine was a bus driver when I was in eighth grade."

"Ahronic, ain't it," the man spits. "Ah take it yer gonna ask me t'leave now, aint'cha?"

I hold my breath, praying there will not be another confrontation—this time, a fatal one.

"First, I guess I'd like to ask you what your name is…neighbor." _He is interrogating him. How clever…_ "I'm David Stadelvard. My wife, Ana, is inside. She would probably love to meet you." My stomach drops. "If you have a few minutes…"

"Ah'm Bill Andrews. `N sure. Ah've gottafew minutes."

I can hear Tony's footsteps come down the hall toward the door of the bathroom, and I quickly grab a washcloth from the linen closet and pretend to polish the mirror. A moment later, the door opens and I am greeted by Tony's sparkling blue eyes.

"Sweetheart, this is Bill Andrews. He lives down the road. He's Buck's father." There is a hint of something in his irises. Sadness, perhaps. "Mr. Andrews," Tony adds, again very respectful, "meet my wife, Ana."

Bill holds out his hand for me to shake and I loosely take it, grimacing at how rough and calloused it is. "Pleasure to meet you," I manage to get out. Tony laces an arm around my waist, setting it on my hip.

"Nahce t'meetcha too, ma'am," Bill drawls, letting go of my hand swiftly. "Yer huz-band hurr said'ja bowt this hurr layend."

"Yes, we did," I reply, giving him my best attempt at a gracious smile.

"Wud't be possib-ul fer me t'see those papers?"

I cast a look in Tony's direction, either out of nervousness or just because his face is so nice to look at. "I am surprised your son did not show them to you, Mr. Andrews. We gave him a copy."

Bill's eyes pop open wider than they were before, and I finally see into those almost maniacal, sea-foam green orbs. The madness within… He frowns and splutters, "Y'did? Wayell what in tarnation gave ya th'think that it was a good idear to give mah irresponsible, missin' son the papers? Whah didn't'cha give `em t'me?"

"We didn't know you at the time, sir." Again, Tony is being unnecessarily polite with Bill, a sign that he is both uncomfortable in this situation and rather scared about the old man's temper. "Otherwise, we would've. Our mistake."

"You weren't th'reason he went missin', are ya?" We shake our heads. "Then y'don't have any reason t'apologahz."

Desperate for a change in topic, I timidly smile and ask, "Would you…like some tea…sir?"

"Nah," Bill refuses, "Never took a lahkin' t'the stuff." He glances out the window, and then at the two of us. "Ah'll call y'all t'marra mornin'. Ah wonna see them papers." With that, the old man hobbles back down the hall, out the door onto the landing, and down the stairs.

I stare up at Tony, who stares back just as intensely.

Without me having to say a word, he nods and, with his jaw set, he shifts his gaze to the wall and says, "I know. I don't like him, either." As he walks away, the tendons on either side of his neck stand out, his shoulders tense, and his stiff stature tells me he needs nothing more than…

"David," I murmur seductively, "now that we're alone …" Tony stops walking and turns to face me, his eyes sparkling on his otherwise drawn face. "What do you say I give you a back-rub, and help you relax? All of this _drama_ with the Andrews family is obviously taking its toll on you and—" Before I can finish my sentence, Tony is before me with his hand entangled in mine, leading me toward our bedroom.

"I say, 'That sounds wonderful,' baby." He places a gentle kiss on my lips and leads me through the door, closing and locking it behind us. While he strips his shirt off of his well-toned chest, he eyes me. "Alright, we've got…" Glancing at his watch, he continues, "About two hours and counting until B—_Dad_—gets here. That being said, give me your best, sweet-cheeks."

I can feel my face flush brilliantly red, remembering our rendezvous undercover.

"_How about answering the phone, sweet cheeks?" he murmured, popping a grape into his mouth from the fruit basket. McGee, running his bug-finding device, stood in a bell-hop's uniform by our television._

_And the moment I had picked up the receiver had been the very moment our entire mission changed. The mission, our feelings for each other, and our safety flipped in that radical moment. My eyes met his, and we knew. We knew everything about each other but so very little. And we loved every bit of that unknowing, that naïve bliss, the understanding that the moment that mission was over, we could go back to living our lives as before. _

_We would never have to admit our love for each other. We would never have to treat each other as anything more than partners. With these theories fully engrained in our hearts, minds, and souls, we thought we could move on. We thought we were invincible and independent and we __**thought**__ we could separate work from pleasure._

_We were wrong._

"Of course, mi poco extremo melenudo." _Let us see Tony figure __**that**__ one out._ Tony's face screws up with thought, obviously trying his best at translating my Spanish.

"Your little hairy…end?" Laughing, he pulls down the blankets of the bed—which Abby must have made earlier, as I had never gotten around to making it this morning myself—and turns to me. "You aren't thinking of the whole 'not shaving' thing, right? Meaning, you'll be hairy at your 'end', or 'death,' I guess you could say?"

"No, Tony. 'Extremo' is another word for 'butt.' My little hairy butt." Realisation crosses his face and a light blush touches his cheeks.

"You will never cease to call me that, will you? I told you, my butt is _not_ fuzzy." I stare at him in disbelief. I had seen it. I had technically felt it. He argues, "It was cold! I had goose-bumps! It wasn't hair!"

"Mm-hmm," I hum, crawling onto the bed. "Lie down and relax." Te heeds my orders and flattens himself into the mattress, letting out a soft breath as the cool sheets hit his flesh. I straddle him, a leg on either side of his hips, and kneel, pressing my thumbs and heels of my hands into the muscles between his shoulder blades.

As he groans, moans, and utters nonsensical sentences, I continue to knead his back, digging my fingers into his tension, letting him finally relax after days of pretending.

Smiling to myself, I softly get up from the bed and pad over to the bedside table, pulling out two small bottles of massage oil. I look between them; the Absinthe may be more relaxing with its spicy citrus scent, but the _Armani_-styled oil may also work well as it is geared more toward men.

"Sweetheart," I murmur softly, running a free hand through his hair affectionately. He emits a noncommittal grunt and I therefore offer the simple question of, "Absinthe or Armani?"

He says something that sounds like, "Absinthe." Nodding, I climb back onto the bed and drizzle a bit onto his back. He hisses as the indulgently mentholated oil touches his skin. I smooth my hands over his muscled shoulders, neck, and spine. Tony's breathing has slowed, deepened, and—overall—evened out.

When the oil has completely been absorbed by his skin, I slow my hands and smooth them down his shoulders, under his arms, and around to his chest. Tony's eyes flicker open and his mouth forms a very tired smile.

"Do you feel better, David?" I ask as he turns over. Glancing at the clock, I see that I have been giving him a massage for nearly forty-five minutes.

"Ohhh, _yeah_, I do," Tony moans, grinning and pulling me down on top of him. "You're so incredible." He stares into my eyes, and I am so mesmerized by their gem-like quality that I cannot look away. His voice says 'Ana,' but his irises are screaming 'Ziva.'

And although I am scared out of my mind, as I always am when I am faced with this horrible emotion, this horrible thing called 'Love,' I find myself unable to move. Resting my head on his chest, leaning my crown against the defined point of his neck that meets his collarbone, I let myself relax into Tony, and quickly find myself falling into a very deep nap.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so there it is. I also don't own **Armani**__. As hot as Georgio Armani is, I must admit I do not own him, either. Sorry, guys! **::laughs::** Like I said, this was a very fluffy episode. Obviously some of you will not mind that much (ha ha ha.) but be forwarned that chapter eleven will be more focused on the case. (I got a headslap, unfortunately, from Gibbs this afternoon. He's overwhelmed...) Ta!_


	11. Going Back to Houston

_A/N: Hello, all. Sorry for the delay...I've had a busy last few days. Before you confront me about any possible typos in my Authors' Notes, be aware that I have fake nails on, because I have a wedding to go to soon; I have not had fake nails since May/June, when I had prom and such that I decided to pamper myself for. **::smiles::**. Okay, so, I also have a story to tell you, that if you don't wanna listen to, you don't have to. But here goes. Yesterday I shadowed a few lawyers and went to lunch with two of them. The first one I met was kinda weird; he was super nice and said hello to everyone. Think of him as Jimmy Palmer, only short. Then I went to lunch; I met a guy who had a Tony Nose. If you're a Tony fan, and are a girl, and find him hot, you obviously know what I mean. For those of you who don't, a Tony Nose is the __perfect__ nose. It's not too long, or two short, or two weird-looking. And the guy had blue eyes, and Tony hair. He was a mature Tony. Very odd. So then I went back to the office and met a few more lawyers; the first one was nice and then the second one, and I swear I was not thinking about NCIS when I walked into her office, shocked me. She was an exact replica of Ziva Davíd, except Russian. It was hilarious, actually, because we were talking and her phone started going off, and she was like, "Ugh, he is bugging me." I felt like asking her if it was Tony, and if it was, could I please talk to him. But I refrained. She answered and began berating him in complete Russian. I was ilke, "Whoaaa, sounds like maybe you're talking to Eli, instead..." Only.. It was Russian, not Hebrew. But, you know what I mean. Anyway, that was my day yesterday and when I got home, I found three more seasons of NCIS in my mailbox. So. Amazing weekend, right? **::smiles::** Okay, now go read. Love, Kat._

* * *

I wake to the gentle rising and falling of Tony's chest, and the smell of searing meat, coffee, and Absinthe massage oil. The room is dark although the curtains are drawn, and I look out the window to see that it is past sunset. Not wanting to wake him, I slowly lift myself away from Tony and off of the bed, praying that the springs do not creak.

Creeping over to the door, I turn the lock as quietly as I can and let the door open from gravity. After slipping into the hall, I tiptoe down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Abby hurtles over to me, throwing her arms around my shoulders and nearly decapitating me. "Ana! Where've you been? Leroy and Tommy and I have been waiting for hours to hear from you." Squeezing me tighter one final time, I am thrown into a chair and stared down upon by not only a very angry Goth, but a fuming Gibbs.

"Bill Andrews, Buck's father, came by today, Leroy," I murmur, supplying him with the answer to the questions blazing in his eyes. "I sensed David was overwhelmed, so I suggested I give him a massage and then we fell asleep."

Gibbs merely stands there gazing at me, and there is one inquiry I have not yet been able to decipher.

"I do not believe our sex life is any of your business, Leroy. I apologise that we worried you. But we _are_ newlyweds and he _is_ the father of my child." Heat floods my face, most likely my chest and neck as well. "We watched movies all morning, talked, and went upstairs. There was a confrontation with Mr. Andrews and then we went and napped. Please do not look at me like that."

Blinking once, Gibbs turns to McGee and snaps, "Tommy, there's a bug on the wall. Smush it." The younger field agent nods, anxiety stamped on his forehead, and crosses the room to pluck the small microphone from behind a picture frame hung on the wall. When the microphone is safely tucked inside McGee's jacket, wrapped in a handkerchief to block out noise, Gibbs drags a chair over to me, slams it down backwards on the stone floor, and swings his leg over it. Bracing his elbows on the chair back, he stares at me, blue piercing brown, as he waits for another explanation.

When I fail to offer one, he shouts, "Dammit, Ana! We leave you home alone all day, and all you can tell me is that you played hanky-panky on the couch and met the neighbors?"

I try to melt into the supports of my chair's back; anything to get away from the livid man in front of me. "Leroy, I just…"

"'You just' nothing. You didn't make your damn husband lunch? You didn't go out? You just stayed on the couch the entire time?" He leers toward me, a ferocity in his eyes that I have not seen in quite a while. "Ana, I expect both of you to get out tomorrow and meet more of the town. Take pictures and get to know the place you're going to be spending the next fifteen-odd years. But under no circumstances do I want to hear that you were too lazy and too 'comfortable' to leave the goddamn house, Ana."

Sometimes, Gibbs is my boss. Sometimes, he's an uncle, or a guardian. But sometimes…

_Sometimes he is Eli_.

* * *

Tony surfaces around midnight, while I, the insomniac once more, sit at the counter of the dark, unlit kitchen. Although I am drinking chamomile tea, with the hope that the herbs will calm my rampant thoughts, I am still wide awake, unable to keep my eyes closed for more than several minutes at a time. As he stumbles into the room and turns on the light, I look up. He is still shirtless, but a terrycloth bathrobe is draped around his shoulders.

"What're you still doing up?" Tony asks through a yawn, almost incomprehensible. I shrug instead of verbally answering him, and lay my head on the cool granite countertop. "Can't sleep? Nightmares? You're drinking chamomile; obviously something's up."

His hand rubs a soft circle on my back and perches on the stool beside mine. "I heard Gibbs yelling. That's why I woke up. But I figured I'd hide out upstairs for a while, and took a shower." I look up at his hair with one eye; just as he said, beads of water are forming at the end of each porcupine-like point of hair. "What was he on about? I couldn't hear actual words." Again, I shrug. His hand stops moving and rests on my right shoulder blade. "Come on. He'll get to me eventually."

I sit up straight, but do not look at him, instead staring down into my cup of tea and playing with the string of the teabag. "He thinks we misused our 'free' time today," I finally murmur, barely a whisper. "He…he does not feel we should be staying in the house anymore. Rather…Leroy thinks we should—"

"Get out and do something, right?" Tony interrupts, grinning. He wraps his fingers around the handle of my mug and steals the cup, taking a sip. "Yeah, well, when you've been with Leroy long enough, you know how he thinks. And Leroy thinks that 'free time' is strictly translated into 'adventure time.'"

"What does that mean?" I lower my head to the cold stone again but turn my face toward him. "That even when we have free time, even when we are playing the newlywed game, we have to go out?"

"He wants us to look like adventurous people." Tony takes another sip of my tea, a long sip. "I mean, Dad doesn't care who likes or dislikes us. He just wants to figure out who those people are. He and Babby have been hitting the hot spots lately." I smirk despite my exhaustion. "Well, okay, so have we, but I meant the ones around town."

"I understood that. You just put it very oddly." I want nothing more than to bash my head into the countertop, but refrain, for fear Tony will think badly of me. "Sleep, why do you avoid me?" I wail to no one in particular, whipping my head up from the counter and snatching my mug back from Tony. I down the rest of the tea, my faith in the 'sleep inducing' effect resting in the note on the tag.

Tony sits and stares at me, first in amazement that I could drink an almost full cup of tea in such a short amount of time, and then with mischief dancing in his blue eyes.

"What?" I mutter, getting up to refill my cup with water. His outstretched arm stops me.

He slides off of his stool and rounds the counter to me. "Yaknow a few years ago when that whole issue with The Frog?" I nod, knowing he means René Benoit and remembering Tony's prior relationship with the arm dealer's daughter, Jeanne Benoit. Soon after the mission ended, as did the relationship, a heartbroken Tony and I came to an agreement that we would not discuss or name any part of that assignment except for the words 'La Grenouille. "Well, I had a really bad time sleeping. Rarely did, actually. And as bad as this is gonna sound, the only thing that would give me a good night's sleep was booze."

I cast my eyes on him, shock seeping from every pore. "You drowned your sorrows in alcohol just for a good night's rest?" Leaning against the counter, I stop myself from asking what he drank. It is not necessary for him to know I am considering his suggestion.

"You gotta do what you gotta do, Zee—_Ana._"

Setting my lips in a thin line, I examine the pros and cons of using his trick. While the entire process would only lead me down a deep, dark tunnel to the world of Alcoholism, I am desperate for something to ease my mind and relax my entire body. Watching my words would be unnecessary. I could say what I wanted to pretty much anyone that I wanted to say it to. I would probably pass out and not wake up until eight hours later.

"It would not be much, would it, David?" I ask, wringing my hands.

"Naw. Just a smidge." Warm blue eyes meet my exhausted pair of brown ones, a smile playing on Tony's face. "So, what d'you say, dear? Will you let me get you a drink?"

_Yes._

* * *

"…so there I was, just minding my own business in the middle of _Hot Topic_, and I'm accosted by freakin' Dimebag," Abby slurs, this time actually drunk. Around one, she had made her way downstairs, speaking some nonsense about being unable to sleep. And now, here she sits; still unable to sleep, but getting closer to her goal.

"Who is 'Dimebag'? Is that like a change purse?" I ask, but the words do not sound like my own. Tony bursts out laughing and I slap a hand over his mouth, pointing toward the floor above us. "Sh!"

Abby rolls her eyes dramatically and sighs, "_No_, Ana. Dimebag is the lead singer of Megadeth. Well, now he is. But he wasn't. No, he was not. He used to be with—"

"Babs, I don't know who Megadeth is, either," Tony blurts, cutting of the Goth. "All I know is that this wine is _amazing_." He unsteadily pours himself another glass. "How'd you get into this, Ana? It's yummy. Tastes like candy. _Oh!_ There's Sambuca in the cabinet. Let me grab it." The senior field agent hops up from his place on the floor and wobbles over to the glass liquor cabinet, retrieves a clear bottle and the ice bucket, three small glasses, and then brings them over to us. "This stuff is dessert. Hard stuff, gotta watch out, but it's great."

I take a sip, letting the now-milky liquid settle on my tongue. "Oh, I have had this back in Ih—" I draw a sharp look from Tony and recollect my thoughts. "—ndiana. I know it does not seem like a party town … but we sure knew how to get down. Oh! I made a poem!"

"Let's continue it," Abby chortles. "I know it doesn't seem like a party town, but we sure knew how to get down. The… boys were cute and the girls were pretty…"

Tony jumps in with, "And the old neighbor's wife was mighty gritty."

It is once more my turn. "My friends from school used to steal from their parents, but they did not get in trouble because the parents could have cared less." It is true. My best friend from Israel once stole a case of beer from her parents' refrigerator. All her parents gave her was a slap on the wrist. Each. Although corporal punishment sounds gruesome, I have seen much worse occur from much less.

"You'd be a great rapper, Ana," Tony teases, giving me a gentle shove. "Hey, what's that?" He points to a shelf that houses a thick book and rises to go over to it, glass of Sambuca in hand. "'Property of Arnold Jackson'," he reads. "Huh. Someone liked a mixture of…" As he flips through the book, he pulls out a stack of CDs. "...Bluegrass, opera, and—_ooh, yeah_—Dean-o, _baby_!" Holding up the final few CDs, he grins madly. "This is going to be a fantastic evening."

Tony hands me one of them and I look at the cover; there is a handsome middle-aged man beaming up at me. Opening the case, I see a small slip of paper tucked into the corner and tug it out from beneath the clip holding it to the plastic. Unfolding it, I read down through the messy scribbles.

_To whoever finds this:_

_My name is Arnie Jackson. _

_I am a Lance Corporal for the Marine Corps. _

_My family abandoned me here when I was eighteen years old._

_I've been here ever since._

_My best friends lived down the road from me. They have gone missing. One was a Marine and two were Navy SEALS. No one knew where they were headed, or when they were coming back, other than myself. _

_I wasn't supposed to, and I'm probably going to die._

_When you find this, if you do, report all of this to NCIS. _

_My friends deserve to live, even if I don't._

_My cousin Buck is down the street. He doesn't talk to me anymore; neither does his dad._

_My mom was the only one who ever knew why, but she wouldn't tell me._

_If you find her, maybe she'll tell you._

_Who knows._

_Listen to track number fourteen._

_It took cleverness to find the book, style to choose this CD, and curiosity to find the note. _

_If you are reading this, chances are, you won't have much time before someone else does._

_And whoever that is, is going to kill me, too._

_Or maybe he already has._

_Find my friends._

_Track number fourteen._

_-Arnie-_

"David…You should look at this." I am handing Tony the piece of paper before Abby jumps between us and says,

"Gloves! It's cold in here, you should be wearing gloves! I'll go get them. Put that on the table." She scampers off to grab gloves from her purse in the kitchen, and is back the room in less than sixty seconds with a box.

Tony walks to each window and closes the curtains and draws the blinds before joining us and also donning a pair of gloves. I hand him the note and he reads through it, his brow furrowing. "I guess we're supposed to listen to track number fourteen?" he speculates.

We hear a step on the stairs and freeze.

"Yeah, I'd say you should, DiNozzo," comes Gibbs' soft voice from the stairwell.

* * *

_Well it's lonesome in this old town._

_Everybody puts me down._

_I'm a face without a name,_

_Just walking in the rain,_

_Goin' back to Houston, Houston, Houston._

Tony paces several times before turning back to us and saying, "Would it be wrong for me to guess that maybe the whole case has to do with Texas?" Gibbs nods and then takes a sip of my Sambuca, making a face. "What, don't like sweet stuff, Boss?"

"Second wife's favorite liqueur. Never really liked it. Probably why she left me," the retired Marine murmurs. "'Babby' and I'll make some calls; you two, make a meeting with NCIS. Just call or something." He runs a frustrated hand through his silvery hair, and stares down at the floor. "And then you should probably go shopping and restock the fridge. It's empty." With that, he rises to his feet and wordlessly goes back upstairs.

We three—Abby, Tony, and I—look between ourselves, unsure of what to do. For ten minutes, we stay silent; Abby plays with her fingers, Tony stands with one leg bent in front of the other, his arms crossed, and leaning against the back of the couch; and I sip lazily at my Sambuca. Our playful mood from before has noticeably deflated.

"So," Abby finally mumbles, "you guys know what helps me think sometimes?" Tony and I shake our heads. "Scrabble."

After searching through seven boxes, we finally find Scrabble hidden amongst old lingerie and empty bottles of wine. Now that we know why we were sent to this particular house, it is safe for us to assume that Lance Corporal Jackson led a rather risqué life.

We set up the board and begin the game.

My letters are U, I, S, T, and K. The starting letter is F. Luckily, it is my turn first, since I am the newest field agent. I swiftly add the letters I, S, and T, forming 'fist.'

Tony uses my T and builds 'time' off of it. "Hah!" he says. "We have little time to figure this out. So, any ideas?" I shake my head, and Abby shrugs. "So, Buck was at the crime scene, right?" Abby nods. "Okay. He saw his cousin get shot, was scared, and fled home, which is about a half mile down the street from us, mind you."

Abby jumps up and runs back into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with her laptop bag slung over one shoulder and a book grasped tightly in her arms. She slaps the book down and points at it. "Look at this. I found it in Leroy's and my room. It's a book of newspaper clippings from, like, ages ago. Years!"

Flipping open the cover, I am immediately faced with headlines from several newspapers, starting from approximately three years ago. For the most part, they have to do with the Water and Soil District, Agriculture Council, and weather. But, interspersed toward the end of the book—with clippings from one year ago—are articles about the missing Marine and Seamen.

And then it hits me.

"Why was Buck in Virginia?" Both of my teammates look at me obtusely, as though I have grown a second head, but too dense to realize what I have for themselves. "Buck was in Virginia when Lance Corporal Jackson died, and now he is missing. He said he has been farming this land for years, which cannot be far from the truth, because his father is no condition to farm by himself," I explain, picturing Bill Andrews' curved back and limp.

"Where're you going with this, Zeev?" Tony whispers, bringing me back to present.

I stare at him and repeat, "Why was Buck in Virginia? If his primary job, which takes up most—if not all—of his time, is here, and, according to the note, Buck and Jackson were not on speaking terms, why would a farmer go to the city in Virginia and witness his cousin's death? Unless—" A light bulb flashes brightly above Tony's head and he and I finish together, "—he does not live here."

Abby pulls her legs up onto the seat of her chair to sit cross-legged, bouncing excitedly. "This is his safe house. Well, not this house specifically. The one down the street." She grins. "Maybe Papa Andrews disowned Buck, or sent him down to Virginia—"

"—to spy on Jackson!" I blurt, giving her a high five. "And then, when there was nothing to report back, Buck had to dig deeper and found something he should not have."

_It tends to happen when you go looking for trouble._

* * *

_A/N: I forgot to add a disclaimer. I do not own Dean Martin, any of his songs, Hot Topic, Dimebag, Megadeth, Sambuca (although I **have** tried it, and it is yummy!), Scrabble (I haven't played in years.), or **NCIS**. Although I do own seasons 1-7 on DVD, which I am very, very happy about. Hope you enjoyed this one! Keep a look-out for Chapter Twelve! _


	12. Fools Like Me

_A/N: So, it's been a crazy past two days. You see, I started college yesterday. So, I would have had this chapter up yesterday if not for the fact I had such an insane day. I am sure you all understand. Getting up at six in the morning, going to class, yada yada. Right, so, here you are. Thank you for being so patient. I love you all. My eyes are like, drooping, because I am **exhausted**. Walking about two miles a day (when you add it all up) really makes you sleep well at night, **::giggle::**. Okay. Well, enjoy. Love, Kat._

* * *

Tony paces several times, rubbing his stubble. He finally stops and turns to face us. "Let's role-play, shall we? I'll be Jackson; Babs, you're Buck and Ana…Hm…" He gives me a once over and declares, "Narrator." He walks over to stand next to the wall, symbolizing the cement wall of the warehouse.

Leaning against the back of the couch, I begin setting the scene. "Alright. Jackson arrives at the warehouse for one reason or another. After waiting for awhile, his cousin, Buck, shows up." Abby crosses to Tony. "Buck found out about something dark from Jackson's past, and has been ordered by his father to get the truth out of Jackson. He holds Jackson at gunpoint…"

"Jackson doesn't tell him what's going on, Buck panics, orders him to get on his knees…" Tony adds, dropping to the floor.

Holding two fingers, in a makeshift gun, to Tony's head, Abby adds with a mock expression of seriousness on her face, "Move and I blow your brains out." At Tony's stern, nonverbal order of, 'Abby, shut up,' her face immediately becomes ashamed.

Analyzing the situation, I look at what is playing out before me. "Jackson, fearing for his life, begs his cousin to lower the gun, so they can talk everything out rationally…"

We only hear Gibbs' voice rumble, "Kid didn't want that. Pulled the trigger."

Without turning around to look at our boss, I nod and murmur, "And then he lost his nerve. He had just committed murder on his cousin."

Tony grins maniacally up at all of us. "And then he crapped his pants, he was so scared, and ran home to daddy."

"David, that's enough," I admonish gently, smirking to myself. "There could have been another shooter, though, which explains Buck's fear. Maybe he went to smooth things over with Jackson, watched his cousin die, and was so scared he could not control himself."

My partner stands and walks over to me, sitting down on the other end of the couch, looking at me. "Do you think a third shooter's possible? I mean, there's not much evidence pointing to it, so how would that play in?"

I turn to him, considering the plausibility of a third shooter having been the murderer of Lance Corporal Jackson. "Well," I murmur, "We do not know if Buck owns a gun, or if his father does. We can always ask. As for another suspect, we are really just picking up sticks at this point." Tony chuckles. "What?"

"Picking at straws, Ana. The phrase is 'picking at straws.'"

I let out a huff and nod in frustration. The English language is terrible difficult to learn, having never studied American Slang, and not having been around many English speakers. Eli had never been keen on sending me to an English-speaking country and therefore here I sit, thoughts completely muddled, as I normally do here in America.

_But at least I am a citizen now._

* * *

Four hours later, and we are still deciphering the lyrics, Buck's disappearance, and the case at hand.

"I feel like we're missing something obvious," Tony mutters, burying his face in his hands and rubbing his eyes. "Like it's right there in front of us, but we're not looking hard enough."

"Or maybe," Gibbs tells him, "we're looking too hard." Our boss sits on the arm of Abby's chair, bracing himself with one strong hand. The way he is looking down at Abby—the fatherly gleam to his blue eyes, the small half smile as he watches her play with one of her pigtails—shows that there is a soft side to the Silver Fox.

_He was probably an amazing father._

Suddenly, all we can hear is the sound of crows cawing and the chime of bells. _Abby's cell phone._ She glances at the screen and a brilliant smile spreads across her face. "It's Tommy!" she cries before flipping the phone open and launching into a wordy summary of what we have found.

No sooner has she finished than sadness crosses her face, raising concern in the rest of us.

"Right, Tommy.—Yes of course, there was nothing else you could have done. I completely understand.—It's still a bummer, though.—Well, _duh_, we were all kinda close to him.—Maybe it was just his time to go, Tommy.—I don't think you have a reason to feel guilty. He was getting old.—Well Palmer doesn't have a reason to feel guilty either, Tommy. He's just the Autopsy Gremlin. So he saved his life on one occasion; that doesn't mean that this was supposed to go differently."

A feeling of dread washes over me. The only person she could be talking about is Ducky. He is elderly, has been 'saved' by Palmer, and was very close to us all. Something must have happened to him now that we are all away from the office.

When Abby snaps her phone shut, tears are about to spill from her eyes. Gibbs wraps an arm around her and looks into her face. "What'd Tom have to say, Babs?" His voice is so soft that Tony and I can just barely make out his words.

"He's dead!" the Goth girl wails, entombing her face in Gibbs' shoulder. "And it's all my fault, too! I should have never, ever, never left him alone, Leroy! Or left him with Tommy. I should have known better!" She lets out a long sniffle, followed by, "Palmer tried to resuscitate him, but it didn't work, and now Tommy feels all guilty, but it's not his fault, you know? No, it's not his fault at _all_, Leroy, because sometimes it's just someone's time to go, and there isn't anything anyone can do to stop that, yaknow? `Cause no one should mess with fate, Leroy. That's bad karma. It'll just come back and bite you in the ass."

I glance at Tony out of the corner of my eye, and see that his chin is resting on folded hands, that his eyes are staring straight ahead and though his mouth is relaxed, his jaw is tight.

_His father would have been proud of him._

"Who died, Babs?" Gibbs whispers, placing a gentle kiss on Abby's head. When she shakes her head and says nothing more, he asks again, more firmly, "Who was it?"

I can tell we are all expecting her to say 'Ducky,' but we are shocked when instead, she whines, "Jethro!"

A smile graces Gibbs' lips for a split second—purely out of relief—and he holds her tight, motioning for Tony and me to go upstairs. I sense that I have dark circles of exhaustion beneath my eyes, and my partner needs time to think.

Leading him up the stairs and into our bedroom, I wait for him to close the door and sit down on the edge of the bed before crossing the room and putting my arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. We stay there in silence for several minutes before he softly presses his lips to my hair.

"You're a great friend, Ana," he murmurs huskily, not moving. "I'm lucky."

_So am I, Tony. So am I._

* * *

Though the water pressure is nothing to write home about—and since America _is_ home now, why waste the postage?—the hot water heater is simply incredible, heating my bath in less than five minutes.

"Ana, darling," Tony sings from the master bedroom, "will you be much longer?"

Rolling my eyes and settling into the suds, I holler back, "Oh, shut up, David. I will be out when I am out."

"And how long will that be?" I hear more Dean Martin music floating in under the door. "I wish to dance with my lady!"

"Do you know what time it is?" I blurt, sighing as the warm water relaxes my muscles. "It is after two in the morning. I need to sleep eventually."

"Then let me bathe _with you_, and then we can go to sleep at the same time!" He lets out a chuckle and knocks twice on the door before it swings open, my satin bathrobe falling to the floor. "Oh, someone's living the good life. Sassy." Tony picks up the bathrobe between two fingers and lays it on the hamper, grabbing instead a magazine and flipping through it. "_Better Homes and Gardens._ Boring! I wanna have some _fun_." Obviously, the alcohol has not worn off yet.

"Are girls not supposed to be the ones who want to have fun?" I ask, eyes barely opening. "Cyndi Lauper."

I feel Tony's eyes on me so I open them and arch backward over the edge of the tub, my hair tumbling over my shoulders. He blinks twice and goes back to reading the 'boring' magazine. After a moment he mumbles, "It was also a movie with Sarah Jessica Parker—"

"—about an oppressed teenage girl who wants to take part in a dance competition but her militant father will not hear of it, so she goes behind his back and trains with a total hunk," I finish for him, grinning. "I have seen that movie about forty times, David. _ABCFamily_ enjoys playing it."

He is silent for several beats before he states openly, "You never cease to amaze me, Ana."

I stare at him, keeping my face blank, and ask, "How do you mean?" I am not amazing. I am far from it. I am the cause of death, grief, anger, loss, and confusion. There is nothing 'amazing' about any of those attributes besides disbelief that someone so silly and trivial as I could ever cause so much pain.

"Well, I suppose it's like the movie _Pretty Woman_; yeah, things start out one way, and you make a certain opinion of someone, but then after a while, after you get to know them—_really know them_—you realize that your opinion is wrong, and you feel differently." The butterflies in my stomach soar at his words.

I ease back down into the water, noticing that the foam from before is almost gone, and blush. However, who am I to tell my 'husband' that he must go before he sees my … _unmentionables_. Not that he has not seen them before, of course…

When I do not speak, he continues softly, "I don't know about your idea of me, but my opinion of you has certainly changed." I can tell I have frozen visibly, but he hushes me before I can speak. "You can be vulnerable around me. Hell, we're the ones who'll be stuck together for all eternity while we're on Gibbs' team, and somehow even when the superhero that he is dies, he'll still somehow figure out how to stick us together around every corner. So, don't try to hide it. No secrets. Deal?"

The only words my mouth will form are, "I could say the same for you."

_Deal._

* * *

The following morning, I follow the meditation-run-shower-prayer routine I started shortly after the Somalia Incident—as I have dubbed it—per my psychologist's suggestion. I never told anyone about her, and I never plan on doing so. Becky is one of the few people who I actually feel comfortable talking to.

Obviously, I did not start out trusting her. I trusted no one. The only one I held an honest, heart-wrenching faith in was Anthony DiNozzo—and according to Vance, he does not count as a therapist—until the fourth session.

_She had crossed the room, sat down in a large easy-chair and looked at me over the bridge of her square-framed, lime-green glasses. There had been no words, no sound, nothing but the easy in and out whooshing sound of our breathing. She had been waiting for me to speak. _

_When I had not, she had openly laughed and scolded, "Now, Ziva, come on. I went to school for ten years to sit in this chair and tell other people how to live their lives and how they feel. The least you could do is pretend you trust me."_

_Her easygoing attitude—complete in her orange tunic, short silvery hair, gold sandals, and white gaucho pants—did not immediately buy my trust, but as I began to speak, her compassionate bronze eyes gazed back into mine with a brand of empathy and understanding that I had never experienced before. _

"_There were two other women in that camp," I had explained. "We were kept in the same room for several weeks, until the men decided that I was the one they had been searching for. Up to that point, however, the women and I had formed an alliance." My fingers had twisted around themselves as I spoke, but Becky had ignored it, instead gesturing for me to continue. _

"_What did you talk about, Ziva?" she had murmured, her green eyes sparkling at me comfortingly._

"_Our lives, who we had left behind …" _

"_I sense that there's more."_

"_Yes …"_

"_And what was it?" _

_After taking a breath, I had slowly answered her. "What was done to us in the rooms. We could not speak the words in English, but the one thing we all had in common was our worldwide knowledge of languages. The men did not know how to speak Russian, so we decided to prepare and console each other in purely Russian and Scandinavian."_

"_Did the men ever find out what you were saying?"_

_I had tensely jerked my head 'no.' "We were very careful to change languages if we thought they were beginning to suspect us."_

Becky had been the mother I had lost. The two other women had been the sisters I had barely known. With these acknowledgements, I had been able to admit and confront the damages I had been put under for those months. My psychologist is the only person who knows the full story of Somalia. As far as I am concerned, the only other person who will ever know is Anthony DiNozzo.

The only reason I had even started going to a psychologist is because Director Vance demanded it. I had walked in following my psych evaluation the day after I returned to Virginia. He had taken one look at me, and handed me a business card.

Without having said a word, Vance had conveyed his direct thoughts to me; I was to call the woman, set up an appointment, and only after she reported back that I was in a healthy enough state of mind was I to return to field work.

Luckily for me, Becky had fit me in that afternoon. Luckier for me, Becky had asked me when I wanted to go back.

And luckiest for me, she had even taken a look at my broken soul and said, "I think we can accommodate that."

The next day, I was driving back to work with a signed doctors' notice. Vance had been forced to take that as 'Gospel' that I was okay, and well enough to return to the field. Grudgingly, he let me.

Now, as I open my eyes and stare across the room at Tony, who is lying in the bed still sound asleep, I silently send up a prayer that the man who helped me stay alive, may also stay alive. _He deserves better than me_, I tell myself. _He does not want me, and I must respect that. He deserves so much better…_

And with those thoughts firmly placed in my mind, I rise to my feet, brush nonexistent dirt off of my bottom, and retreat to the hallway.

Destination? Kitchen. Mission? Breakfast.

* * *

"Y'know, I'd really appreciate it if you'd wake me up when you smell bacon cooking," Tony drones, stuffing a piece of the grease-dripping pork into his mouth.

Disgusted, but not about to tease him, I murmur blankly, "Your cholesterol would have thanked me had you not found out." As I read down through the newspaper, I come across Police Beat. "It seems Buck has done more than just gone missing," I state, shoving the paper toward Tony. Though I refuse to make eye contact, I can sense the hurt confusion pulsing from his eyes.

He scans the newspaper quickly, setting it down to take a bite of scrambled eggs.

"So, I guess I'm just kind of confused, Ana. Did I do somethin' wrong? Because I feel like you don't want to talk to me, and as your husband, I think that's sort of a bad sign." Tony sighs and takes a long sip of his coffee. "And for the record, if I do ever say something insensitive or something, I hope you know me well enough that you could tell I'd never actually _intend_ to hurt you."

I feel my eyebrows pull together at the center, but I say nothing in response. I do, however, feel the need to point out once more the Police Beat article. "Buck stole a car and a gun. He brutally _attacked_ the owner of the vehicle. Is this not the information we have needed?"

"Maybe he's on his way back," Tony murmurs, picking up his plate and emptying it into the trash before placing it as soundlessly as he can in the sink. After grabbing his jacket from the coat tree, he turns to look at me. "I think I'm gonna go teach myself how to drive the tractor."

_Oh, well, that is an excellent excuse for avoiding our case. How irresponsible can a man be? The entire point of this senseless assignment is to catch the man who kidnapped—and possibly __**murdered**__—three servicemen, and all he can think about is driving a tractor? _

As Tony pulls himself up into the cab of the tractor, it occurs to me that he has never _driven_ a tractor. I step out onto the porch, half worried that he will somehow get terribly hurt, and half contented in the fact there is approximately one ton of steel between his body and the ground, should anything happen. Fighting off a chuckle as I watch him pull a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and proceed to—seemingly—follow directions as to starting the tractor, I think to myself about what kind of show this will be. Comedy? Tragedy? Drama?

Maybe a little bit of both. But, while Tony put-puts down the far-right side of the road, I cannot help but notice that maybe, just maybe, the look even—dare I say it?—suits him.

* * *

_A/N: Yeah. The moment you've all been waiting for. She thinks his tractor's sexy. Right? Yeah. I'm pretty sure a number of you have already mentioned that to me. So without further ado, I will now write my disclaimer._

_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Pretty Woman, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (The movie with Sarah Jessica Parker or the song by Cyndi Lauper [neither of whom I own]), She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy (by Kenny Chesney, who is not my property) NCIS, or anything else I mentioned in this chapter that I should be disclaiming._


	13. Bitter and Blue

Hello, readers. Yes, this is an … **_author's note_**? Is that what you call them? Oh, yes, Tony is nodding at me. Excellent. I got something right. Well, as you can tell, Kat is NOT here right now. No…actually, she has ordered Gibbs to order us to tell you all why there is not a chapter thirteen. And you know how he gets. So, before he comes back with coffee (that he does not drink…have any of you noticed that?) and yells at us for not telling you …

Kat is very superstitious. Although she is Roman Catholic and believes in God, she also believes that the number thirteen is bad luck. So, as she could tell she would be having problems writing chapter thirteen, she has decided to put in a lovely little insert and then direct you all to chapter fourteen. Excellent, right? Yes. We thought so. That is, Tony and I.

So, to waste your time, she has also told Gibbs she wants me to entertain you. So … I will do my best.

Today, Tony and I went shoe shopping. The moment we got home, he stepped in nice big pile of—

"Cow manure," he says, crinkling his nose. "How do I manage to step in shi—"

Watch your language, Anthony DiNozzo, or I will cleanly remove your tongue from your mouth.

"Rawr, tiger." Tony picks up his shoe from the floor and grimaces. The **Italian **leather, shining brilliantly, but caked with manure on the bottom. He lets out a whimper and cries, "Cow!"

So, without further ado, I hope you all have enjoyed reading thus far, and I have some secrets for you. They are _not_ spoilers. I do not believe in them. But.

_Here is what we know so far._

+Tony and I are Ana and David Stadelvard, two newlyweds who are expecting.

+We now live on a farm in Canandaigua, New York.

+We met a … sketchy? Yes, sketchy man from down the street, named Buck.

+Buck is missing.

+Tony likes Reuben sandwiches.

+And Strawberry Chiffon Pie. [Kat's mum just made that at the restaurant, by the way, and she ate it everyday for lunch with tea.]

+And possibly, me.

+I am having flashbacks from my time in Somalia.

+It is interfering with daily life.

+And, quite possibly, my…_friendship_ with Tony.

+And making me reconsider my feelings for him.

+We pretended to make love. _[This is Tony. Maybe we were pretending, maybe we weren't. Over and out.]_

So, what is coming? Gardens, roses, and rings.

"These are a few of my favourite things…" Tony hums, cleaning his shoe. "Pugh, but not manure. Yech!"

Nice, Tony, just lovely.

Well, now that I have succeeded in wasting your time…

Have a fantastic day.

Love,

_Tony and Ziva._

PS: NOT TOGETHER. -Z

PSS: Don't count anything out. ;) -T

PSSS: TONY. Don't listen to him. -Z

PSSSS: Zeev, don't be so serious. Smile more. It suits you. -T

PSSSSS: Do not push me, Tony. Goodbye, faithful readers. -Z

::hits save button::


	14. Boy With the Blues

**_A/N:_**_ My author's note is going to suck. Want to know why? I wrote a freaking awesome one about fifteen minutes ago. It was long and funny and cutesy and amazing and then guess what I did? I went through and put the little line break things between each section. Then I tweaked some stuff, and took away some stuff, and added some stuff. I wrote an awesome disclaimer. Yep, took about fifteen to twenty minutes, right? Huh, funny, I went to paste something-which is a word you will read eventually-and it said I needed to 'Allow Pop-Ups in my Browser." Cool. Okay. **::allows pop-ups in my browser::** Oh snap. It deleted all of it. So. I don't own anything that you wouldn't normally think I'd own. This includes, but is not limited to, Tony, John Deere, Pokemon, Sonnenburg Mansion at the Gardens, Main Street, etc. Thanks for reading. Means a lot. Yada yada. **::scowls because she is in a bad mood, not because she is mad at her readers, and she feels horrible because she doesn't want them to feel bad about themselves::** Peace. [xx Love, Kat]_

_PS She's maaaaaaaad... **::munches popcorn::** -T  
PSS She has every right to be. Internet Explorer hates her. Oh, she also does not own that, she is requesting I add. Now shush, DiNozzo, or we will miss the opening lines... **::holds down his hands so he cannot type a retort:: **-Z_

* * *

Weeks pass. In a matter of two days, Gibbs has all of the landscaping pruned, down to the cedar mulch around all of the rosebushes and freshly trimmed hedges. He even hopped onto the John Deere garden tractor Tony found in the garage, murmuring something about, _'What I do for you two._'

I had simply rolled my eyes and returned to the house to start a fresh pot of coffee.

But that was two weeks ago, and since then, the days have grown shorter, the nights colder, and the leaves more vibrantly orange. The wheat has begun to turn, the corn has dried, and fields of soybeans have gained a robust gold. The countryside is beautiful, but the feelings I have inside are changing as well.

Gibbs and Abby had left, declaring a 'couple's retreat' to Texas was in order. Tommy had gone back to Virginia long before that, pretty much the same week he arrived. All three left with the distinct message of, "If you need anything or just want to talk, call us anytime."

So, now, we are all alone, Tony and I, in this giant house. Some of the rooms I have not even been in yet except for the cursory scan the night we had found out about Buck's disappearance; McGee, Gibbs, and Tony had gone through each room and debugged each of them, the same night, but I had stayed with Abby and had a good few hours of girl talk before they returned. But, playing house is growing boring. I can feel Tony pulling away from our friendship.

I, of course, have not made matters better, what with avoiding his gaze as much as I can, only making physical contact when it is absolutely necessary to keep our cover, and only regarding him after he talks first.

As he approaches me now, pausing in front of the couch I am curled up on, I feel my stomach clench, and although the book I am reading has held my attention for more than two hours, for some reason I cannot read past the last sentence.

"You play piano," he murmurs, taking a seat on the coffee table, next to my steaming cup of green tea. I nod, missing his point. My heart beat quickens but I say nothing. "Ana, look at me." There is a brand of desperation in his voice that hits me strangely as he repeats, "You play piano."

All I can get out is a simple, "I do."

"Top of the stairs, hang a left, third room from the end of the hall." Tony just sits there, staring into my eyes just as intensely as I am staring into his. "Baby grand. Bergmann, classic gloss black. In tune." I nod, and when I do not elaborate but instead turn my attention back to my book, he just sighs, stands, and walks away.

Just as quickly as he is gone, I am on my feet and at the top of the stairs. _Third room from the end…third room from the…_ My eyes land on a door. The doorknob itself is ornate, so I can only imagine how the room is decorated.

When I swing the door open, all of my focus is transferred to the beautiful piano in the corner. The sun glints off of the lustrous black case; the striking black against the pearly white keys; the gold embellishments on the inside of the action, the gleaming '_Bergmann_' on emblazoned on the front of the piano. Breathless, heart racing—as this is the first piano I have seen since we have arrived in Canandaigua—I skip to the bench and take a seat, letting my fingers brush over the keys , playing several chords.

_He was not lying. It __**is**__ in tune …_

As my hands glide across the keyboard, playing a song I had learned long, long ago, back when I was a teenager in Israel. In my mind's eye, I replay memories of the long, swaying grass. The cows. The market. The mountains, the beach, the trees, my home…

_Mossad._

The notes reach a forte. I am playing with such fervor, such zeal, such _passion_, that I do not notice the door open and Tony sneak in. When I hit the resounding chord to end the piece, I am sitting there, heart racing as quickly as my mind, and I look up. Though my hands are tangled in my lap, when I see Tony, I want to hurl myself over to him and just sit in his lap, cry into his chest, wrap my arms around his neck and hold him until the pain is gone. His glittering blue eyes shine back at me, telling me that he wants me to do just that.

But 'that' …

_That cannot happen._

* * *

"Hey, Zeev, you know what McGiggles left us?" I look up as he makes his way into the dining room where I am setting up for lunch. "A debugger. I mean, it's temporary, but look!" I glance at the black box in his hand. "See? Red light, everything's off. Green light, there's a bug. How _awesome_ is that?" Tony swings his leg over a chair and sits down, pressing buttons. "On, off, on, off…" he mumbles under his breath.

When the red light is on, I murmur, "Tony, stop."

_Green light. _"Look, Ana, I know you're pissed at me, but—"

_Red light._ "I am not angry with you, Tony. Would you just hold the red button, for a moment, _please_?" He looks at me. "Thank you. I am not angry. I am confused and tired and bored and—"

"Ziva. Listen to me. You know what's boring?" My eyes meet his and he nods, mouth slightly open in a half-yawn. "Yeah, that's right, driving a _tractor_ is boring. I can't even imagine what it's gonna be like to combine oats or whatever. This is ridiculous. But this is our mission and we've gotta play our roles. If you want to break protocol and face Boss' wrath, you go right ahead. But I'll just stay right here, thanks…"

I set down the plates I am carrying and plainly frown at him. "Tony." He groans, somehow knowing that I am serious. "Tony, I need to get out. I need to …"

"You're three months pregnant. There isn't much you can do." Green glows from the end of the device and Tony stares at me, a mischievous gleam in every feature of his face. "I mean, I read those books Babby gave us, y'know, and there was a chapter where—"

"We are not having sex. I believe the saying is, 'Keep it in your pants.'" I lock eyes with him and am greeted with resounding hurt, and some disbelief. "You are my husband. The father of my baby. Is that not enough? Let us go somewhere and explore Canandaigua, instead of exploring _each other_."

"But … but …" Red beams up at me as he splutters. "Okay, Zeev. What's _really_ going on?" Tony gives me that look, that knowing 'There's something you're not telling me' look that he has given me on numerous occasions before.

"I asked you once before if you heard of soul-mates," I tell him, breaking eye contact and focusing more on the napkins I am supposed to be folding—per Ducky's instruction, of course. As he nods, I try to make a bird of paradise. _Fold corner, fold up, fold…what?_ I shake out the napkin and start again, trying to ignore the unsettled feeling that just knowing Tony's eyes are panned on me gives me.

"And I said that you'd have to sing a few bars and I would get it. I _know_ they were a band or something…" I see him shake his head out of the corner of my eye, and also scratch his temple in an attempt to concentrate. Figure it out.

"You did not 'get it' then, and you certainly do not 'get it' now." Frustrated, I toss the mess of a napkin down on the table and storm into the kitchen, somehow knowing Tony is tight at my heels. I try to make my way across the room but he slams a hand down on the counter, barring me from passing through. After I pointedly refuse to look at him, he places a gentle hand on my jaw and points my face up at his. My only response is a glower.

After a moment of silence, Tony sourly mutters, "I 'get' a lot more than you may think, Ziva, and you may think I don't 'get' very much about what you've been through—and hell, maybe I don't—but I've never told you that you can't talk to me about it, have I?" Without letting me answer, he plows on, "No. I haven't. So if you won't tell me what the _fuck_ is going on in your mind, don't act like I'm so wrong for not knowing." His intensity—the cutting gleam in his eyes, his set jaw, the slowness of his words, the depth of his voice—scares me, but only for a minute, because just as soon as he finishes speaking, I register why he is upset.

He feels guilty.

"You did not rape me. You did not capture me, or beat me, or confine me, tie me up, throw me against cement walls, throw dust in my eyes, rip at my hair, or anything else that happened in Somalia," I slowly say, staring up into his eyes. "Therefore, you have no reason to blame yourself. Let it go. I have."

But that is a lie. Because I will never let it go.

* * *

"Where are we going?"

After having heard this question thirty times in the past ten minutes, I pull over to the side of the road and sit, staring at him intently, on the verge of hitting him.

For once, he has let me drive. Yes, me, driving, on a public highway. In an unfamiliar state. His beautiful black Mustang, in my ready hands.

I suppose telling him that I passed my drivers' test—which I only signed up for because I thought it would look better to have an American license—with only three points off of my parallel parking may have been in my favor.

"Where are we _going_?" Tony finally whines, staring back at me.

"The answer is not in my eyes, so you can stop looking," I mutter, not moving. "We are going to a place that means a lot to me. So just shut up, enjoy the ride, and relax." He nods bitterly and I take that as my cue to put the car into 'drive' and continue on my—our—journey.

"But can't you give me a hint?" he groans. "Jeez, you dragged me out of the house so we could sit in a car. Lovely."

"You _did_ reinitiate the security cameras, yes?" I ask, suddenly regaining my agent persona.

"Yes, Ziva. I reinitiated the security cameras. But that doesn't tell me where we're going. Oh, wait! Was that a hint?" Suddenly excited, he is silent, thinking. I chuckle to myself, not confirming or denying his question. "Are we going to the PD? Do I get to walk around a jail or something? Where—_Oh!_ Cameras, right? So that means we're gonna be on film! Am I meeting a celebrity?"

I shake my head 'no.' "Tony, you can just relax. I am not going to tell you where we are going."

The truth is, I found a website for a local State Park. _Sonnenburg Mansion_, with connecting gardens. The pictures on the internet were gorgeous, and I had made up my mind to drag Tony there—be it willingly or kicking and screaming—someday. After our confrontation in the kitchen earlier … I was even more determined. We had to somehow get our minds off of my 'past.'

So here we are, sitting in his beautiful, black Mustang, headed to the place of my dreams.

"Ziva?"

"You had better not be asking me what I told you not to ask. Right?" I make a left onto Main Street and slow my speed. "Because if you do, you are walking."

There is silence before he softly starts to talk again. "Ziva, what's that car behind us?"

I glance quickly in my rear view mirror. A blue van is following on my tail. Shrugging, but 'freaking out' internally, I murmur, "I am sure they are just going somewhere toward the top of Main Street." I know he can tell I am also worried.

"Been following us since we turned onto five-and-twenty, Zeev. I don't think it's a shopping spree they're interested in going on."

"Tony, relax." I tap on the brakes and gauge their reaction. They simply back off approximately a car's length. I make the snap decision to make a right hand turn. My sense of direction is impeccable. I know I will be able to navigate back to Sonnenburg once we lose them.

_If we lose them…_

They follow us for three turns before turning into a driveway. Even when we drive on, they do not. I check the compass and it says we are headed North. If I turn left, I should theoretically—

But there we are, in front of a beautiful house, more gorgeous than even in the pictures on the website. I am speechless. The looming gardens, iron gate, stunning mansion…

"How do you find these places, Davíd?" Tony whispers, also in awe. "God…"

"I would like to think that he has something to do with it." _And fate. _I pull through the gate and to the parking lot, choosing a solitary space to park in. Stepping out of the car, I shield my eyes and look up. "Well, sweetheart, are you still military?"

Tony laughs. "No." He digs in his pocket and withdraws his wallet. "Ten bucks a pop isn't too bad." _Especially when it is not your own money_, I think in amusement.

"Well, then. Let us commence with the touring, yes?" I smile at Tony and he suddenly is at my side, linking his fingers with mine. "David?"

"Ana." He is solemn, but there is fire burning in his eyes.

_Leazazel._

* * *

"I wish I could do the Adventure Trail thing," Tony mutters, handing the lady behind the glass his admission money. She raises her eyebrows and counts through the five-dollar bills. "Like, I'd totally pay extra for two maps. I don't really even need the prize. It just sounds like fun."

The woman nods and gives a small chuckle, handing us the receipt. Holding up a finger, she halts us, and also thrusts two treasure maps at us through the window. "Have fun, you two. But don't tell my manager…" Smirking playfully, she lifts a finger to her lips and waves us through the entrance gate.

I turn the map over in my hand.

"Where to first, baby?" Kissing my cheek, I am slowly led down a stone path to the greenhouse. "The greenhouse looks pretty cool."

Checking my map, I nod, trying to ignore Tony's thumb is gently running up and down the side of my index finger. I cannot tell if it is simply to put on appearances or not, because I know our fingers—and what they are doing—are hidden from plain sight.

The moment we step into the greenhouse, a barrage of scents hit my nostrils, taking me back to the botanical gardens I used to visit in Israel. Jasmine, juniper, rhododendron…I am surrounded by gorgeous colours and smells.

"Wow, it's beautiful," Tony gasps, not letting go of my hand to cross the room and stare at the plants all around us. I have never seen him so enthralled, except for when Jeanne came to the office that last time, when she accused him of murdering her father.

_Tell her what she needs to hear_, I had murmured, although my heart was breaking into a million pieces. He had gone, and they had talked, and he had come back with tears in his eyes, but he had refused to say a word to either of us. He had not made room for eye contact. He had retrieved his jacket, phone, and duffel bag and swiftly left the building.

And I have a feeling that, when he had arrived home that night, he had gone inside and cried and drowned his pain in whiskey.

My heart thumps painfully for him, my pain melding with his, hoping he has forgotten or somehow put it aside, even though I know it is nearly impossible to do. Even after almost three and a half years, no one can forget a love that strong, that easily. That brand of love becomes part of you. It consumes you, and grows, and sometimes it grows so fast or so slow or so _big_ that it hurts a little bit the entire time.

And then when it is gone, it hurts worse than any injury one could ever imagine.

It hurts worse than a hundred lashings.

It hurts worse than forty broken bones.

It hurts worse than a torn muscle.

It hurts worse than that first time, that first moment two people become one, that first second that you understand what love and hope and faith and future and marriage and beauty is.

Because once two people become one, it is very difficult to separate them. Because one split in two does not equal two separate people. One divided by two equals one half. It takes away half of a person. It does more damage than good.

Similar to when a person dies—be it a mother, father, sister, brother, grandparent, _child_—a piece of you dies with the loss of someone you love. In a way, death _is_ involved in every breakup.

And I know that part of Tony died with his father.

But I have no time to consider this as the man in question yanks on my hand and pulls me out of the other end of the greenhouse. "_Pokemon! Gotta catch `em all!_" he sings, dragging me forward to skip with him. I have not seen Tony so enthusiastic in quite a while.

_This is good_.

* * *

"_Woo-hoo_!" Tony lets out a whoop and leaps into the air, drawing several disturbed looks from people exiting the mansion. "I got `em all! _All _of `em! Do you know what this_ means_?"

"Yes, David," I murmur, humouring him. "It means you get a 'special prize.' I am sure it is nothing more than a piece of paper."

Tony puffs his chest out, obviously proud of himself. "I would make an awesome investigator. Detective David Stadelvard, P.I."

_But he is not Magnum. He is Tony. My Tony._

* * *

**A/N:** My mood has been lifted a bit by rain and a bit of Nutella and stuff, so I can now tell you what I was going to tell you before. **::saves all changes before pasting word::**

_Leazazel _= Damn. So, as we Americans use 'damn' to represent awe, or disbelief...that is how she was saying it. Kind of like 'Whoa' or 'Oh snappp!' or even 'Hot Damn!' And now, thank you very much, I have that song stuck in my head. The 'Oh hot damn, this is my jay-um. Keep me partyin' till the a-am. Y'all don't understand, makes me put my hands in the ay-er, ay-ay-er..." I think from that you have caught my drift.

A side note, I apologise for Tony's obvious vulgarity when confronting Ziva. I know he hasn't shown much emotion toward what she's been through but he's putting two and two together, and coming up with about four-point-five. He's close, you know? But not _quite there yet_.

Another side note. I was watching an interview from, I want to say, 2003? Was that when NCIS first aired? I cannot remember, I was not a fan at the time (I know, **blasphemy!**) so I wouldn't know when it aired. But it was shortly after Dark Angel ended and he was cast as Tony and it was like, between the first and second seasons. Anyway, I have a question for all of you MW fans out there-Do you think he is somewhat like Tony? Many actors and actresses [Aww snap, this is gonna take me well over 4,000 words.] bring their own...'voice'...to their roles. For example, I had to portray a 400-pound woman in our spring musical. A 400-pound woman who, at the end, attends Cinderella's wedding. I am boy-crazed. I am _so boy crazy_ that it would make your head spin to watch me between classes. Like, my thought process is, "Okay, so I have to get to the Honours house by 3:30-Ooooh, there's a hot guy-and then I have to walk home-oooooooh, SNAPPP, another hot guy-and then..." I think I made my point. So I flirted with Nick, the guy who played the prince, the entire time. And also, I'm very self conscious, so I used that to my advantage and ... well, you get it. So, I guess I should give MW context for my question;

I was watching an interview, like I said, and it was going very well. He was nice, he talked about his son (MW was thirty six at the time, and his son was eight. I was considering marrying his son if MW was still married when I was like...twenty-three. His son is sixteen now. _Not gonna work._) and stuff, and he was really sweet. And then the interviewer started discussing the break-up between MW and Jessica Alba, and he became Tony almost instantaneously. He started joking about having sex with her and yada-yada, how awesome she was. How she was nineteen, but, yaknow, they were together for three and a half years and so toward the end, she could drink. But she was legal the entire time for other stuff **::he winked here at the audience.::** And although I was somewhat disgusted (merely because I am against the objectification of women) I couldn't help but see past it into the soul of a hurting man. He stated toward the end of the interview that the moment he walked into the room and saw her, she had him mesmerized, and that the relationship itself was great. But it was still sad. Every time the man would ask MW a prodding question about Alba...he turned into Tony. Remember in Season 5, when Tony was interrogated by Fornell about his relationship with Jeanne? Replace Jeanne with Jessica Alba...and that's what you have. Yeah. I'm including the link at the bottom here, just if you wanted to watch it.

But what do you think? Do you think there are cases where, for all of the actors and actresses on NCIS, they show some attitudes and behaviours of the characters they portray?

.com/watch?v=fbG9ckk5rvw = The Interview.

Ta, I'm off to bed. Xx, Love much, Kat


	15. Bleeding Love

_A/N: I would like to submit a formal apology for the short chapter and extremely long wait. College has been nuts. I have to write other stories everyday for a class, so please bear with me. I have nothing witty to say about this one...I'm too exhausted. So, enjoy. Love, Kat_

* * *

As I set the table almost two weeks after our Sonnenburg excursion, Tony enters the house carrying a handful of mail. Today is Friday, so of course we would get mail. But what could it possibly be?

He tosses two white envelopes and one manila legal folder onto an unused part of the table, keeping one for himself.

"Ye-_heahh_!" His face breaks into a massive grin. "It's my prize from that Sonnenburg thing, Zeev! 'Hello, David Stadelvard. We at the _New York State Wine and Culinary Center_ would like to congratulate you on successfully completing the Kids' Trail Adventure at _Sonnenburg Mansion at the Gardens_," he reads. "As your prize, because we have been alerted to your being above twelve-years-old—Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I?—we have awarded you with a wine tasting and cooking class for two, of your choice."

Tony's expression falls considerably. "No. This is a horrible prize. Can't we just get dinner or something? Why learn how to cook?" he wails.

I stare across the table at him. "Do they give you a list of classes? It may be fun. Relax." He hands me a sheet of paper. After giving the list a cursory scan, I look up and say, "Middle Eastern Mezze," handing the paper back to him. I do not consider the possibility that he will not be able to choose a wine tasting by himself, but when he only stares at the paper, I know it was inevitable. "Actually, perhaps we should take that one later on, maybe in the Spring. Let's take the Couples' course, the Holiday Table one."

It would be a great way to ring in the New Year. I would be four months pregnant by then.

_Erm…hypothetically speaking… _

"Okay … do you think it _has _to be a wine tasting?" Tony squirms. "I mean, you know, I'm more of a beer person." I snap softly for the paper and he hands it to me again, this time the side with the wine tastings facing me. "I guess there's one that sounds kind of interesting …"

I read down through the menu. "You could take a class. Pairing beer with food. Wine with food. Anything with food."

"No, a sampling of anything should do." Tony winks at me, catching me off guard. "Don't want to use up all of the state's money, do we?" I roll my eyes and point at 'New York State Beers vs. the World.' His brow furrows.

"What," I state. It is not exactly a question, but it demands an answer.

"I was thinking 'New York State Wine vs. the World' sounded more interesting. I know you like sweet wines and stuff, so—"

"But you like beer. You just said it yourself. And you cannot tell me you would actually enjoy yourself at a wine class, regardless of how much fun I would be having."

"Ziva, you've gotta look at this from my perspective. You're my wife and—"

"_Tony_." I gesture at my stomach. I am wearing a very light pack that just makes me look as though I have gained several pounds over the past few weeks. I have had to give up running, but I submitted a complaint to Gibbs demanding that I still be able to at least practice yoga. So I suppose I am a very Zen person: yoga, Qigong, and meditation every morning. Becky would be proud of me.

"Oh, that's right! You can't have alcohol." Tony's cheeks flush brilliantly as he walks around the table, and then pulls me close. "Let's just call the place and be like, 'Sorry, my wife is pregnant, so the wine tasting is a no-go.' They'd understand. Besides, I was looking at their website and they've got a flight in their tasting room that's just juice …"

I firmly push his arms away. "No, _David_. You deserve to have fun." The tablecloth needs to be changed, as the leaves have turned an even more brilliant rust. Crossing over to the side table, I open the lefthand drawer without looking and pull out a tablecloth. "You know, you should really call—" Tony's jaw drops and he stares at the sheet in disgust. "What is it?"

"I know who I should call, _Ana_." I move my gaze downward and see that the tablecloth looks as though it has recently been soaked in a vat of blood.

Together we murmur the word, "Gibbs."

* * *

He is on his way back the next morning, the red-eye flight. "Don't you go anywhere. Lock all of the doors, don't answer the landline, and close all of the blinds," had been Gibbs' only reply before hanging up the phone.

I throw Tony a nervous look. He catches my stare and returns it.

"I guess we're stuck inside again. Jeez, it's like every time we go into town, something bad happens the next day," Tony whines, trudging into the parlor and flopping down onto the loveseat. "You know, this really sucks."

I nod, following him. "Yes, it does indeed." Perching myself on the edge of the coffee table, I balance my elbows on my knees. "Tony," I murmur, "if we are holed up here for a while, we should probably just talk."

"Talk about what?" he asks, throwing his legs up onto the couch. "Colors?"

"No. Deeper things." I know this will come back to haunt me, but I feel as though there are things that we have not discussed that, once we do, will bring us closer in the end. At his questioning stare, I suggest, "Parents."

He throws out a bitter laugh and laces his fingers behind his neck. "What could you _possibly_ want to know about my parents?"

This I could have expected.

"Your father. I have only met him once." I do not expect him to go into great detail, as he has always kept his past a secret from me. But lately his eyes have been stewing. I caught him in the nursery the other day looking around. When he had noticed I was in the room as well, he had all but run out, refusing to catch my eye.

"Oh." Tony grins. "You want to know about my Tony Senior? Gotcha. Okay, let's see. He was an arrogant, deceptive ass for most of my childhood." His smile is bitter, and he stares at the ceiling. "You know, he wasn't a horrible father in that he hit me or anything. He only spanked me once because of the snow-suit incident.

"What made him a horrible father was that he never really remembered me. I mean, I was his only kid. He should have been able to at least remember _that_, right?" I close my eyes, trying to either envision his father or purge the pain he is transmitting to me from my mind. "He left me in a hotel room once, when we were in Hawaii. I stayed there for two whole days waiting for him to come back and he got really—_really—_mad at me when he got the room service bill. I was, like, ten. What could he do to a ten year old, you know? So he just yelled at me for about an hour and sent me to my room without dinner. I had a stash of candy bars in my closet. No harm done."

I slowly open my eyes to look at him and state very quietly, "Tony, you do not have to tell me any of this." But he nods and throws out a bark of laughter.

"Yeah, I do. You told me everything from Somalia—" _That's not necessarily true…There is much you do not know…_ "—and I've been keeping all of this packed away in my head for a while. I bet that's why everything went south. You can't do that to yourself. You have to talk about it. So here's me talking."

I can tell by the way the light is glinting off of his teeth that he is forcing the smile. That instead, he wants to go and grab the unopened bottle of whiskey I had found in the back closet and drink himself into oblivion. "Anyway, so where was I? Oh, right. So, then I guess my trust in him kind of degenerated and, without a mom—she died when I was eight—without a mom to look up to and pal around with, I was stuck with him." Tony rests his feet up on the arm of the couch.

"I got through the Academy by drowning my pain in drinking parties and hot women—yeah, Davíd, they had hot women—and then joined the Navy, and then dad told me I wouldn't go anywhere in life so I went to college at Ohio State to avoid the summers in the East Hamptons, and just…Well, I did about the same thing there."

I eye him suspiciously. I do not believe he was ever really a playboy. I still do not believe it, even after seeing him with Jeanne and the One-Night-Stand Facebook incident. "You did not," I accuse lightly. "You graduated from Ohio State with a Bachelors' in Arts of Physical Education." He shoots me an odd look and I admit sheepishly, "I have a tendency to be nosy when it comes to agent's files."

"You looked at my file?" A smirk creeps onto Tony's face. "That's oddly flattering, Ziva!"

I shake off his prodding look and plod on, "You could not have achieved such high grades if you had been a … a … _party boy_."

Tony shakes his head, as if knowing he is caught, but refusing to come clean about his seemingly flippant attitude in the past. "Ziva, listen to me, I'm really not—"

"Tony, fast forward through college, then. But I do not want to hear anymore of your 'partying' days.'" I hold up a hand and pull out my cell phone when I hear it vibrate in my vest pocket. Abby.

_Found lots! Hope everything's going okay with you. Love you both, Babs._

I blink several times before tossing the phone at Tony, who just laughs and rolls his eyes. "Anyway," he murmurs, "I joined the Police Academy just because. It was something to do. Dad said I wouldn't go anywhere, so I wanted to prove him wrong."

"You did, Tony."

"No, I didn't. I'm just some stupid investigator. Hell, I can't even do that right." Tony looks directly at me, guilt pouring from his eyes. I wordlessly beg him to not blame himself, not for Michael's death… "No, Ziva, it's true. I know it is. If I hadn't been so determined to get Rivkin out of the country, I wouldn't have gotten into the fight, I wouldn't have had to shoot him, you wouldn't have been left in Israel, and your father wouldn't have been able to send you on that damn suicide mission. It all comes back to me." His jaw is very tense now, set against itself.

I lean forward slightly, enough to where, if I wanted to, I could reach out and take his hand. "Tony, look at me." When he doesn't, I repeat firmly, "Look at me, please." He turns his head, his blue eyes melding with mine. "Tony, that was not your fault. None of it."

"If I hadn't—"

I hold up a hand and he stops talking. "If you hadn't gone to my apartment, yes, Tony, Michael would still be alive. But right now, I probably would not be." Tony cocks his head and I offer a small smile. "My father was plotting against me. If it had not been Michael, it would have been something—or someone—else. Mossad would have been sent for me. Eli would have demanded it."

He shakes his head but says nothing more.

"Tony," I murmur, "you think you know everything about Somalia. But there is much I have left out. And while I am not ready to tell you, know that none of it was your fault." I use this moment to reach forward and gently take his large hand in mine. "None of it."

"But it _is_, Ziva! If I hadn't—Let me finish!—If I hadn't shot at Rivkin, you wouldn't have asked Gibbs to separate us, and if you hadn't asked that, he wouldn't have left you behind, and then Eli wouldn't've sent you on that mission, and you wouldn't have been captured by Saleem, and you wouldn't have gone through all that you did. I'm sorry." After he takes a few breaths, Tony grasps my hand a bit tighter. "It reflects on me and my stupidity. I broke protocol, and ended up killing someone special to you."

I blink several times in disbelief. "Tony, stop being so ignorant. I was trying to make a point. I was trying to figure out everything about myself, okay?" He only looks at me. Drawing a sigh, I explain, "The moment I came to NCIS, you cannot deny there was chemistry."

He gives me a small smile. "Well, yeah, I suppose there was a connection …"

"We fell prey to it as Assassins. We did not deny ourselves. Our banter quickly became the only way we knew of relaying our feelings." Tony nods. "But then … You met Jeanne." The tendons in his neck stand out as he tenses. "I backed off. I wanted you to be happy."

He only mutters, "Mm, that ended well, didn't it?" and absentmindedly gives my hand a soft squeeze.

"No, it did not. For you _or_ Jeanne. But for me?" I let out a quiet chuckle. "I cannot say I was completely saddened by it. The part that hurt the worst was the fact _you_ were hurting so badly, especially when Director Shepherd made you lie to Miss Benoit."

This is the first time—ever—that Tony and I have discussed the Le Grenouille incident. I cannot lie to myself; I am rather nervous.

Tony is completely silent, and very apprehensive, as I slowly continue, "So…I let you go through that. I did not wish to be a rebound, and I knew that you needed time to work through it. When Director Vance sent me back to Israel, I reconnected with Michael. He and I grew up together. He was one of my earliest friends. When I returned to Tel Aviv, I noticed he had not grown too horribly unattractive, so, to get my mind—and heart, I suppose—off of you…I began a relationship with him. But … when I returned, the feelings came back, like a tsunami, almost."

Tony stares at me. "Are you being serious right now? You're not just messing with me?" I shake my head. "Why didn't you … tell me?"

"Rule number twelve." We exchange a small, almost furtive, smile and I finish my tale. "The entire Michael situation began because he started suspecting that I was not being loyal to him."

"Who would you cheat on him with?" His naiveté is adorable. I turn my face toward the floor but cast my eyes up toward him through my lashes. He groans, "Oh…not me, right?" I nod. "It was me? I've never actually been a home-wrecker before…"

After giving him a small chuckle, I assure him, "You were not a home-wrecker. Michael was paranoid. Simple as that."

"But … how do I play in, then?"

"He figured that as long as you were here, near me, you were a threat. He thought … He thought I was practicing infidelity. With you." He chokes on something, most likely his own saliva, and I cannot help but laugh. "Unfortunately … he decided to spy on me. And that night, he probably would have killed you. Mossad men are jealous and paranoid, and usually care little about murdering threats, whether they are personal or those of the country."

Tony sits up. "So, to clarify, he thought we—you and I—were sleeping together?" I nod. "I guess … I don't know … Why?"

Shrugging, I rake my free hand through my hair and say, "Nor do I. But, what I do know is that I would prefer having him dead over you any day … whether we were having sex or not." I pat his hand and release it, making to stand, but he grabs me around the waist. "What are you doing?"

"Hugging you."

And for a moment, I am glad that I did not have to talk about the present. That only would have complicated things, and I like them as they are. So, instead, I relish in the feeling of our bodies pressed together, wishing it will never end.

* * *

_A/N: Mm. So. Again, I feel like this was filler. So ... **::shrugs::** Be nice? I'm exhausted.. Thanks for reading. Love, Kat_


	16. Have You Seen My Love

_A/N: Hello...Can you believe I wrote an entire chapter in, like, a day? Yeah. I had a lot of inspiration for this one. I hope you enjoy it! _

_**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Company Store...Or NCIS._

* * *

Gibbs bursts into the house, walking in on us as we end our hug. After giving us a wary glare, he beckons to Abby that it is okay to come in. The Goth girl immediately crosses into the dining room and sets her test kits on the table. An expression of pure excitement—mixed with fear—is proof that her adrenaline is running strong.

Unfortunately, nowhere in Canandaigua is Caf-Pow sold, so I make a mental note that, as a reward, I will buy her another cupcake once we get the go-ahead to leave the house.

Tony unfolds his legs from on the seat beside him and sets his feet on the coffee table, slinging an arm across the back of the couch. I take the empty cushion next to him while Abby performs her tests and Gibbs replaces my prior seat on the coffee table.

"What've you got for me?" Clasping his hands in front of him, he keeps his gaze averted down to prevent us from reading his eyes.

"While Ana was at her 'prenatal appointment' a few days ago, she told me to go shopping. So I did. There's food in the refrigerator…Help yourself, dad." Tony grins. "Yeah, I'm not sure how she pulled it off, but … y'know. She's good."

In fact, I had been very good. After Ducky had called almost a week before, telling me that he had set up an appointment with a doctor friend of his, I had immediately asked Tony how to handle it.

'_Just … go in there and do what you have to do. Pee in a cup, right?'_ _He had smiled and draped an arm around my waist. _

'_Not quite, David,' I had muttered, raising a hand to his cheek. 'It is a full exam.'_

'_By' full', what do you mean? What kind of doctors' appointment is this?' I had raised an eyebrow. 'Oh…one of __**those**__ appointments.'_

_Nodding, I had let out a chuckle as he flushed slightly. 'I have to meet with the obstetrician. So, how do I go about keeping up appearances?' He had immediately grown serious and taken a seat at the counter. _

'_Mmph. I'd say you should just go in there and tell them you're a friend of Ducky's. He works for NCIS. Everyone knows that … if Ducky referred you to this person, it's safe to assume the lady knows the predicament.'_

I had kindly left out that 'the lady' was, in fact, 'the man.' _Oops._

"Uncle Roy called…Apparently the doctor is his friend. So he explained the situation and he fit me in." I shrug. "There is not really much more than that."

Doctor Peters told me that I would have to change my pack again. He has worked with undercover assignments before, which is why Ducky called him. All of us can be confident that our secret is safe with him.

Gibbs grunts. "Other than that."

"Oh, right. While I was shopping, I ran into the Town Supervisor," Tony murmurs and Gibbs perks up. "I asked him if he'd heard of the Andrews family and he got all apologetic…Said that if Buck had done anything, he'd personally take care of it."

Our boss gives us a look. His brow is furrowed and his blue eyes glitter curiously. "Past history of making problems?"

Tony nods. "Yeah, I guess. So I made a few calls when I was waiting for Ana to come out, and all I got was, 'That little ruffian! Lay him out if he gets too close!' No one seemed too upset that Buck's missing … Except for one woman."

Gibbs merely looks at him, a silent order to elaborate.

"Oh, right, Dad. She refused to talk about Buck. She said that if I wanted to 'talk about a psychotic, problematic rebel without a cause,' I should take it up with someone he hasn't already hurt." My partner pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Gibbs. "Her name is Maria Albert. She lives in Cheshire somewhere."

Abby lets out a 'whoop!' and we all spin around. "Sorry, guys! I just …" Dropping her voice, she whispers, "Prints!" At our questioning stare, she waves for us to come see for ourselves. "They're invisible to the naked eye, but then you do this—" She passes a black-light over the tablecloth. "—and it's like a whole colony! I mean, some of them are from you, Ana, but you're not our killer. At least, I hope you aren't. Because that would be a little—" Gibbs coughs and she breaks out of her ramble. "Sorry, I got carried away. Anyway, you won't believe what I've found. This isn't human blood."

"It's not?" we three ask, leaning over the table.

"Nope! It's the blood of _Sus scrofa domestica_," Abby proudly states, holding up a test tube. "The domestic pig."

"That sounds like you, honey," I joke, shoving Tony's shoulder. When he looks at me with mock hurt in his eyes, I graze my lips across his briefly. "Kidding."

Abby and Gibbs exchange a confused glance and the Goth quickly continues, "Anyway, it's fresh, so I think it was all a hoax."

"How fresh is 'fresh', Babs?" Gibbs inquires, staring down at the tablecloth in a mixture of disgust and interest.

"I'd say one or two days, including today."

"Son of a bitch." With that, Gibbs has whisked out of the house and across the road to the barn.

"I just fed them this morning …" Tony complains. "There wasn't anything out of place! I checked. I have to do that whole 'parameters' thing."

When we hear a rooster cry and a gunshot soon after, it takes us seconds to get to Gibbs' side.

There in front of him lays a coyote, staring lifelessly up at us.

"The damn thing was going after the chickens." Gibbs shrugs and starts off in the other direction. "You'd better call the DEC. They'll want to know about this to set the other farmers on alert."

When Gibbs is no longer in front of us, Tony walks over and crouches down next to the dead animal. "It's the size of a German shepherd…"

I shake my head. "It is bigger than Tommy's dog."

"Was," Abby argues. "It _was_ bigger than Jethro _was_." Tears well up in her eyes and she looks away. "Poor Jethro."

"He was a large dog, Babby," I try to console. "They do not live as long."

"But he was my freh-heh-_hend_," she sobs, throwing herself onto Tony and wrapping her arms around his neck. He holds her there, unsure of what else to do, and for some reason shoots me an apologetic stare. When Abby finally composes her emotions, she lets go of him and walks toward the calf's pen.

Tony approaches me and loops his thumbs through his belt-loops. His elbow intentionally grazes my arm as he stands incredibly close to my side and softly says, "I think we should finish our conversation from earlier…"

I only can manage a noncommittal 'Mm.'

_We shall see._

* * *

Over dinner, Gibbs tells us his and Abby's findings from Texas.

"It turns out," he mutters before taking a rather large bite of steak and adding as a side-note, "This is really good prime rib." I smile to myself while he continues, "It turns out that Jackson went to college at Our Lady of the Lake University."

"Yeah! And he graduated with his Bachelors of Arts in Criminal Justice, and minored in forensics," Abby cuts in, stealing a potato from Gibbs' plate. "Ana, what spices did you put on these, because they're amazing."

"Rosemary," I answer.

Gibbs looks up and steeples his hands. "Jackson swam on his school's team and went to sectionals. He ran every day and lifted weights whenever he wasn't running."

"How do you know all of this, Dad?" Tony murmurs, taking a long sip of beer.

There is a pregnant pause before Gibbs says, "His wife lives there."

I blink several times, not understanding. I finally ask, "Wife?"

"Yes, Ana. Turns out, Jackson was married." Before Tony gets the chance to speak, Gibbs turns and argues, "And no, David, the wife didn't do it this time."

"How do you know that, Dad?"

"Because she's confined to a bed in the psych ward of a mental hospital there. I talked to her mother."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Maybe the in-laws didn't like Jackson."

"Maybe Jackson didn't like them."

Gibbs goes on to tell us that he and Abby went to visit Martina Jackson in her hospital room after getting the necessary clearance. Abby had been asked to stay in the hallway, as Martina had a violent past with women. The Goth woman had, however, remained in sight of Gibbs, who had communicated with her in sign language

Both had found out that Martina is a recovering schizophrenic, slowly making her way out of the acute stage. She was, however, able to use metaphors and riddles to help convey events for the two NCIS employees. In this way, she told Gibbs that Jackson had been abusive and adulterous throughout their marriage.

"No one else seems to think that about him, though," Tony murmurs. "I did my research. Everyone says Jackson was a nice guy with a successful past."

"Why would a woman lie about his treatment of her, though?" I wonder aloud. "She is suffering from a mental disease …"

"Yeah, Ana, that's why I did my own digging and talked to her mother." Gibbs pulls out his wallet and withdraws a slip of paper. "She told me to call this number. She said it's someone who can help us."

"Mmph," Tony utters, "Sure." Taking the paper, he dials it into his cell phone. "Hello, is this—" He scans the paper for a moment. "—Helene Morgan?" There is a brief pause. "This is Special Agent …" Tony casts a nervous glance around the table before smiling and saying, "Special Agent Timothy McGee, from NCIS.—Yes, that's us.—Oh, you did?" He scribbles something down on the piece of paper and tosses it to Gibbs, who raises an eyebrow. "Oh, right.—Oh, she's your sister?"

We all watch him carry out the subtle interrogation. When he hangs up, Gibbs is the first to speak.

"What'd she have to say, David?"

Tony's smile has faded and in its place is a slight pout. "She didn't like Jackson, boss. She was really adamant about it, too. I guess he never actually hit Mrs. Jackson, but he didn't want kids and he forced her to get an abortion the one time she got pregnant."

"So that's what she meant by, 'I tied a knot by eating a baby, but the knot came undone when the Bear came home,'" Abby murmurs, reading off of her Blackberry. "That's horrible. She was just trying to keep him around and make a home for herself …"

I don't stay around long enough to hear the rest of the story.

* * *

"Ana?" Tony's voice says softly at the door. "Ana, are you feeling okay?"

I shake my head, forgetting that he cannot see me.

"I can't hear you shake your head, you know. You're going to have to say words." I laugh at his ability to read me. "I can tell you're not okay. Please let me in, Ana?" Grudgingly, I rise off of the rocking chair and open the door. The nursery is finally completed, with Gibbs' and Abby's help. Though he remained quiet throughout the process, and refused to talk about the nursery other than paint color, I knew that he had emotional ties to the principle of it.

I had asked him one day when he was putting the finishing touches on the moulding about why he had chosen _Winnie the Pooh _as a theme. He had turned to me, a small but sad smile playing on his face, and told me that Kelly's bedroom had been centered around the little, honey-obsessed teddy-bear. Shannon had fallen in love with the Hundred Acre Wood many years prior. It was something that he felt very strongly about recreating. Who was I to say no to that?

Unfortunately, there will never be a baby to live in it and make all of his work worthwhile.

"Wow, it's really nice," Tony coos, stepping around me to examine the border on the walls. "_Winnie the Pooh_ quotes?" I smile and nod, but say nothing. He crosses the room to me. "Come on, Ana. Tell me what's wrong." Taking both of my hands, he wraps my arms around his waist and holds me to him.

After a long internal debate about actually telling him, I finally decide to do so. In one breath, I state, "I want to have a baby." I am not Ana now. I am Ziva. Hopefully, Tony will be able to see that.

He is silent for a while before stepping back and looking into my eyes. "Are you serious right now?"

"Completely."

"Zeev, what…why?" His blue eyes are wide.

"I want the American Dream. Husband, children, house, pets, car." I turn my back and focus on the small, pink rabbit nightlight that Abby bought at the Company Store. "I just…do."

Tony says nothing, but I can feel his eyes drilling into the back of my head. After a few minutes, he quietly says, "You will. Someday."

I shake my head. "I am almost thirty," I murmur. "Sooner or later, my time will be up."

"You're twenty-eight, Ziva. Hell, you have at least seven years before you have to worry." His voice is strained.

"Tony, do you not get it? Women want love, and companionship, and marriage…"

His broad palm rests on my shoulder. "You don't think you're loved?" he asks softly. "You don't think you've got your three compadres? In fact, you've got more than that. How's that for companionship?" I turn around and see that I am inches from him. "Just because you're not married, and you don't have a boyfriend, doesn't mean you're unloved."

I stare up at him. "Tony, that is not what I meant …"

"What _did_ you mean? Because we love you, Ziva. All of us. Abby, Gibbs, McGee, Ducky, Palmer …" Tony pauses and takes a deep breath. "Me."

Smirking, I murmur, "You love me?"

Without skipping a beat, he replies, "Yes."

_I love you, too._

* * *

_A/N: Mmk, so I've been having the same fears as Ziva is having...And I'm nine years younger than she is. I had no idea that Ziva was only twenty-eight. She seems a lot older. Tony's thirty-nine. That's nine years between them. That's not too bad...Right? :) Hopefully, everyone caught the Season 8 Premiere! If you haven't ... well, watch it, and then my next statement will make sense (and hopefully just the wording will give you incentive to watch/rewatch!): Tiva moment? Did everyone catch it? Seriously, **amazing** stuff right there. I believe I may have to refer to the 'tan-line' statement. **::winks at you all::** If only Tony could notice **my** tan-lines...I would definitely marry Tony. Seriously. Ziva'd better be careful. Okay, keep a lookout for the next chapter!_


	17. Peppermint & Glue

_A/N: Mm, so I had a lot of inspiration for this one. Like, a lot-a lot. Hope you enjoy it :)_

_**Disclaimer**: I do not own NCIS (unfortunately), Ob-Gyns (mm, who would really want to, though?), Rosie Thomas, or Dean Martin._

* * *

Lying in bed, I have the overwhelming urge to reach over and kiss Tony, just to see if it will make me feel better. Once again, I am lying awake while my partner sleeps soundly. Before, when we were undercover, his sleeping habits annoyed me. He was such a restless sleeper, yet he accused _me_ of snoring? I do not believe him… But now? I do not know why, but there is what seems like a magnetic pull, tempting me to move closer to him. However, I force myself to resist.

Our discussion two weeks ago in the nursery still rings in my ears at least once a day. He said he loved me.

But he could not have meant 'love' in _tha_t way. No, of course not. It would be preposterous to even consider that he loved me as anything more than a friend. A colleague.

_A companion_.

"Mmph," Tony mumbles through sleep, "Ana, stop thinking and just go to bed, would you?" His eyes open slightly but I can see the shimmery blue from between his thick eyelashes. He offers a small smile and I can only think of how peaceful he looks. He is—_dare I say it_—beautiful.

"I can't," I state simply, but softly, slightly tensing when I feel his thumb tracing my jaw. He is still looking at me with his gorgeous, heavily-lidded blues, asking me the unvoiced question of, _Why not?_ Shaking my head, I answer him, "There is too much on my mind."

"What helps you sleep?"

I stare at him for a moment before whispering, "Lullabies." From the time I was a small child, I have often fallen asleep to the sound of a soft song. Rosie Thomas is at the top of my list. No one knows that, not even Becky.

Tony raises a sleepy eyebrow and murmurs, "Would you like me to sing you a lullaby, _Ana_?" When I hesitate, he pulls me closer and I find myself pressed against his bare chest, his face beside my ear. Quietly—and, I notice, intimately—he begins to sing. "_I didn't mean to find it out, though it's really nothing new. We laid our cards on the table, baby. He was holding you_…"

I feel myself snuggling against his shoulder but do nothing to stop. "I did not know you listened to Ricky Nelson."

"It's a classic, Ana. Of course I listen to him." His hand gently slides around my waist and rests on my lower back. The next lines are almost a purr, they are so soft. "_Well, some you win, and some you lose, and some you tie in knots. Seems love is what I'm always givin', and never what I've got…_"

I softly chuckle against him. "How do you know you do not ha—" Before I can finish my sentence, Tony has begun the chorus.

"_So saddle my dreams, I'll be riding again, hiding my sorrow inside. Saddle my dreams, I'll be riding again, borrow some truth to pay for all your lies._" His soft question of, "Are you sleeping yet?" is met with silence, because I am barely conscious. I feel him laugh, press his lips to the crown of my head, and continue with the following verses. Soon, however, I am in a sound, sound sleep.

* * *

When I wake up the following morning, Tony's side of the bed is empty. I send a cursory scan across the room and then my ears kick in, the sound of water streaming in the bathroom.

I rise to my feet and cross the room to knock three times on the door.

"Yeah, Ana?" he calls, muffled by the sound of the shower.

"Just checking to see where you are, darling," I tell him, trying the doorknob. He left it unlocked. _For a reason?_ I retrieve my makeup, a slightly larger pregnancy pack, and some clothes and slip into the bathroom, trying to ignore the fact Tony is naked in the shower.

"…_Hey, goomba, I love how you dance the rumba but take some advice, paisano: learn-a how to mambo. If you're gonna be a square, you ain't-a gonna go nowhere…_" Tony sings, lathering his hair with ocean-scented shampoo. "That's the one good thing about my father, you know. He had a taste for the classics."

I look past the fact he is talking to me while he is showering—_naked_, no less—and reply with a laugh. "Eli liked the classics as well. The Churchills were his favourite, closely followed by The High Windows."

Tony takes a while answering. "Never heard of either of them."

"They're some of the first rock bands of Israel, David."

"Oh."

I apply a thin layer of powder and follow it by bronzer, all while humming _Hayal Shokolad._ Or, _Chocolate Soldier_. For the past few years, I had immediately thought of Michael every time this song had played. This is the first time I have ever been able to _not_ think of him. It is also the first time I have related a song to Tony…

"You have a pretty voice, you know. You should sing more often," Tony mumbles, turning off the water. I turn to see him stepping out of the shower, an over-sized green towel wrapped low around his hips. I fight off a shiver, focusing my attention more on my eyeliner and shadow. "No, really, Ana, you should."

Smirking, I answer, "Perhaps when our baby is born, I will sing him to sleep, yes?" I finish my makeup with a single coat of mascara and some nude lipstick. After pressing my lips together, I turn to him and smile. "You have a nice voice too, David." He shrugs and leaves the bathroom to change. In his absence, I slip off my tank top and pull the pack over my head, positioning it at my naval. Reveling in the feel of satin on my arms, I button up a blue blouse over the pack and cringe as I button a pair of jeans—a whole size and a half larger than what I am accustomed to wearing.

Before walking out into the bedroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and absentmindedly raise my hands to rest on my stomach, mesmerized by the image. I am so caught up with my reflection that I barely hear Tony's soft "`Scuse me" as he squeezes by. He stops dead in his tracks, though, when he, too, sees my image in the mirror. A light blush rises in both my cheeks and his, and after a curt nod, he retrieves what he had come in to get and leaves.

"Are you okay?" I call after him.

"Yeah, it's just difficult for me to understand that this is really happening," he murmurs, gathering the dirty clothes from his corner of the room. "I mean, four and a half months and we're going to have a kid

"This is true." I follow Tony, cornering him on the far side next to a bureau. "Do you want to know the gender?"

"Uh …"

"David, I have a doctors' appointment today. I am far enough along that I can have a gender test done … do you want that, or no?" I am greeted with blank eyes. "It is a simple answer. Yes or no? Surprise or not?"

He takes a moment to think before bluntly stating, "Not. I want to know now. I'll go with you." Grinning, I grab my purse and take his hand, dragging him from the room. "But I'm driving!"

* * *

"Ana and David Stadelvard?" the nurse calls from a door on the opposite side of the waiting room. "Doctor Owens will see you now." There is a smile on her face as she gestures for Tony and me to go through the door, that makes me feel somewhat uncomfortable. I take note of her name-tag. 'Penny' leaves us in the examination room and I hop up onto the table.

Tony smirks and murmurs, "I must say, _Ana_, I love the way our names sound together. Makes us seem dignified."

"We _are_ dignified, David. Those in love are dignified." I stare at him, half wishing he would come and kiss me to prove my point, but the other half wanting the appointment to be over.

When Doctor Owens walks in, he locks the door before saying anything. "Well, Ana, what's your plan for today? Are you going to have the test done?" Tony and I both nod. "Excellent! How exciting." He presses a button on a NetBook and we are immediately connected to Ducky's lab. "Doctor Mallard! How are you today?"

"Oh, I am doing marvelously, Geoffrey. Have you our guests in your examination room?" Ducky immediately smiles and says, "I take that back. Hello, Ana, David."

"The room is sound-proof, Ducky. You can speak freely," Doctor Owens informs us all. "I'll leave you to undressing and getting ready, then." He swiftly exits the room.

"Ducky, have you found anything?"

"Well, Lance Corporal Jackson died from more than just blunt force trauma and a pistol to the head. I took a sample of the poor man's lung to Abby and she found traces of tetrahydrocannabinol, cyanide, and carbon monoxide."

Tony's brow furrows and he mumbles, "Marijuana? Since when does that kill people?"

"Nothing kills people, Anthony. People kill people. But I was not finished." Ducky pulls a folder out from beside him. "Abby also found traces of arsenic and belladonna in Mr. Jackson's blood." Holding up a Petri dish, he smiles and elaborates, "Poison, and nightshade." My heart sinks.

"How d'you think he was poisoned, Ducky?" Tony asks, leaning forward to examine the sample. "Accidental?"

"Oh, no, my dear boy. There is not a doubt in my mind that this was premeditated." The elder man sets the dish down and nods. "Ziva, you seem to recognize these clues."

I shake my head. "Not from this case, but from another I investigated years ago, with Mossad," I explain. "A man associated with a drug cartel left them, and his boss did not care for his abandonment of his 'family.' He sent him cigars as a type of bait for the man to return to the cartel, or so it appeared."

"What were they really?" Tony asks.

"Poison. Nightshade leaves were finely chopped and added to the tobacco; the two were then sprinkled with arsenic and the mixture was rolled into the paper." Staring down at my hands, I murmur, "I think we found our drug cartel."

Tony shifts his weight beside me and I feel his arm subtly brush against mine. "Thank you for the info, Ducky. We'll call again soon!"

The effervescent Medical Examiner beams up at us. "That sounds lovely, Anthony." Before we hit the 'end call' button, he holds up a finger and says, "Oh, and Ziva, you're looking positively glowing." After a small smile, the call is ended and Tony and I are once again alone.

"I miss him," I state to no one in particular. "Anyway, We should probably tell Gibbs what we have found, yes?"

"Yeah, but can we get some lunch first?" Tony gives me all but a puppy pout and I laugh, playfully shoving him. "How about that cute little place you took me before?"

"After they run the tests…"

"What exactly do you have to do?"

"Ultrasound is the only thing that I feel comfortable doing," I explain. Actually, that is really the only thing for them to do. The baby is not real. Therefore, there is no amniotic fluid or chorionic villi to test. Tony stares at me like I have grown another head. "What?"

"They're actually going to run an _actual_ ultrasound on your _actual_ stomach?" he asks, completely flabbergasted.

I raise my eyebrows. "Contrary to what you may have learned, a baby does not grow in my _stomach_, Tony. They are going to be looking at my uterus." He squirms and I cannot help but give him a Gibbs-slap. "Grow up. Someday, you will have children. And your wife—whoever that may be—will drag you to all of her appointments."

"Let's just…okay." Tony looks at the machine and at that moment, Doctor Owens walks in. "We're ready!"

The doctor laughs at what could appear to be Tony's apparent excitement over the event. "Well, that's good to hear. Ana, I'm going to ask you to unbutton your blouse—" He drops his voice to murmur, "and take off the pack," before returning to a normal volume. "—and lie on your back. David, you can take a seat anywhere."

"I'm not leaving her side…" There is something oddly comforting about his curious devotion. "Wait, I still don't get it. You're actually doing this?"

"I have to run the machine or no one will believe it," Doctor Owens explains. "You can keep the pictures. I don't need them."

"What, of her empty uterus?" Tony snaps. "Isn't this just filling her with unnecessary radiation?"

"Trust me, this is a routine practice. There's no radiation involved. Promise." While I have been obeying his requests, he has turned on the machine and retrieved a tube of ultrasound gel from a drawer. "Now, this will be a bit cold…" I twitch a bit as the cool goo makes contact with my skin and watch as he presses the transducer probe onto my 'pregnant'—but flat—stomach. "Go ahead and take a look at the screen."

"Yup, that looks cool," Tony mutters. "Not much to look at."

Scoffing, Doctor Owens tells him, "But you can tell she is an active woman, sir. Strong uterine walls and muscles around them." He moves the probe below my bellybutton. "I see something odd right here, though." On the screen, he points to a small, dark line on the otherwise flawlessly grey background. "Ana, have you ever been pregnant?"

"No," I murmur, and it is not completely untrue. I can remember being taken to a hospital tent by one of the guards in Somalia. After a particularly nasty session with Saleem, Khaldun was worried that I would either be pregnant or never be _able_ to become pregnant. I was bleeding internally, so they performed surgery. That was the scar. The only evidence of any compassion I had experienced while being captive. Unfortunately, the guard paid for that compassion with his life.

How I can explain this to the doctor and Tony, however, is another story. In an attempt to avert attention, I lie, "Erm … yes." My eyes dart to Tony, who has put on an extremely hard exterior. His shoulders are slouched and tense. While he holds my hand, he refuses to look at me, focusing instead on the screen.

I wish he would look at me, but I cannot force him. I vow to explain the situation later.

_Whether he will listen is a different story._

* * *

I stand outside the kitchen later that night, listening as Tony berates Gibbs about the appointment. "She had an _abortion_, Boss. Do you know what kind of moral shit that goes against?"

"Uh, yeah, David, I do," comes Gibbs' even tone. "But that's not your responsibility, or your business."

Tony paces across the room. I can hear his footsteps and take a step away from the door, though I can still hear him, just so he cannot see me. "Boss, it's different, though. What if Saleem got her pregnant? What if he performed the abortion himself? Oh my God, what if—"

"There're a lot of 'what ifs' in that sentence, David, and not a lot of facts." Gibbs' voice has dropped considerably and I have to strain my ears to hear him. "You and Ana have something, and while sometimes I question your behavior, you're both good people. And I have to hand it to you two; you're professional." There is a lull in conversation, and for a moment I think it is over. Our boss surprises me by saying, "The bugs are off. Speak."

My partner sighs. "Gibbs, I just worry about her."

"I used to worry about Jenny."

"Yeah," Tony argues, "But you had a reason to. Ziva's different. She's strong. She can take care of yourself, you know?"

Gibbs only murmurs, "Yeah," and swirls something in his glass, the ice clinking. "Sometimes even the strongest women need some saving, DiNozzo."

"I can't save her, Boss."

"Maybe you already did."

* * *

_A/N: I hope you enjoyed it... :) I had to do a lot of research about chemistry and ultrasound machines and pregnancy and poisons. I think anyone sitting next to me in the library thought I was a freak. But, I hope it was worth it. Love, Kathryn_

_**PS:** When imagining Tony singing, I find it helps to not imagine the season four hobo-Tony singing about Le Grenouille and watching them eat outside a restaurant. (Which, if you have not seen, you must watch on YouTube. Just look up, "Tony DiNozzo Song" and it should be in the first few results.) If you want a clearer image of singing, sexy, sleepy DiNozzo, look up 'Bitter and Blue' or any of the five songs on his demo album. If any of you are interested... :D http:/www. youtube. com/watch?v=dxlGvxsGBg4 (without spaces, of course.) That is the song Tony was singing to Ziva. And, hmm, ironically enough...Is that not Gibbs? **::winks:: **Anyway. Tah!_


	18. Thankful

A/N: **::smiles::** I really don't have much to say about this chapter...So...Enjoy.

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own NCIS. Bummer, right?_

* * *

I do not have to see Tony's face to know he feels betrayed. I turn to him, hoping that a small smile will right the damage I have caused by my secrets. It does not, however, and that night before we go to bed, I find myself crossing the room toward him.

Before I can reach my partner, he softly asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I blink several times. "Tell you what?"

"That you were _pregnant_, Ziva! That you gave up your _baby_," Tony barks, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I was not pregnant, and I did not give up any baby," I reply, my voice a whisper. "They thought I was." His face snaps up to look at me.

"Who's 'they'?"

"Saleem and one of his guards." My voice wavers. "I…have not told anyone." His expression melts and he pats the empty seat next to him on the bed. I sit next to him, angling my knees so that they just barely touch his. "Saleem raped me that night. But it was not just that. He…" Closing my eyes, I try to work up the nerve to say it. "Tony, you must promise me something." I gently open my eyes to look at him, to show him the severity of what I have to tell him.

"That depends, Zeev." His voice is husky, his eyes the deepest blue I have seen in a while.

"Please, do not get angry."

"Easier said than done, but I'll do my best." We sit in silence for what seems like hours, until I finally decide to come out with it. My eyes squeezed shut so that I do not have to look at Tony's face when he hears the news, I slowly begin.

"He had a staff. It was mahogany and gold, and it had a round ball on the top end." Sighing, I tangle my fingers together in my lap. "He did not feel I had served him well that night. He wanted me to suffer." Tony says nothing. "He—he tied me against the wall and took out his knife."

"No," he gasps. I nod and lift my shirt and the bottom of the pack just enough to reveal a scar on my lower abdomen, that no one would be able to see unless looking for it. Any encounter thus far with Tony had kept his mind elsewhere. I had told him not to touch anything lower than my bellybutton. I had kept him occupied with kissing and _not_ faux foreplay and up until now, no one had known the scar was there except for me.

When Tony sees it, he draws in what sounds like a hiss. However, I plow onward, knowing that if I stop talking for too long, I will never finish.

"I cried out in pain and got punished for it. Not only was I still in pain after he slept with me, but I was also bitter. Since I was tied to the wall, he had one of his guards come in and hold down my feet. I was still unclothed so…" In my peripheral vision, I see both Tony's jaw and fist clench. "So it was easier."

A few moments go by without any more of my story and Tony finally asks quietly, "What was easier, Ziva?"

I take in a shaky breath and then slowly let it out, praying I can keep my composure. I am on the brink of losing it, after suppressing these thoughts for so long. "It was easier for him to put … to put the staff …"

"No," Tony hisses, visibly tensing. "He didn't…?"

"He sodomized me with the staff," I finally blurt, "and tore my cervix. It was the worst pain I had ever felt, and it rendered me unconscious, but by the time I woke up in my cell six hours later …" I try to remember. "By that point, the guards had rushed me over to the hospital tent and they had done emergency surgery to close the wound. I could have died. And I would have, and then Saleem never would have gotten the information he so desperately wanted about NCIS, so they had to save me."

"So that's..."

"Yes, Tony, that is the scar you saw today. I did not have an abortion." I rise and make my way over to the window seat.

I do not know he has followed me until I hear him whisper in my ear, "I'm sorry, Ziva."

For the second time this year, I turn around and look at him. "I should have told you sooner. It is I who am sorry."

Tony shakes his head. "You went through hell, Zeev. You … it's your right to keep it to yourself. I just wish …" I can finish his sentence for him, although he does not verbalize it. _I just wish I could have been the one to kill him._

I look up at him and place a gentle hand behind his neck. "It is in the past. All we have to hold onto is the future." Searching his eyes, I know we both feel the pull between us.

It only takes a moment for his lips to meet mine. Even thought the kiss itself lasts just as long, what stands behind it is more important.

* * *

Weeks pass. Thanksgiving nearing, we are struggling to find time to shop, decorate the house, and investigate.

As I sit at the kitchen table, looking up the one curried stuffing recipe I had used a few years prior, Tony's arm slips around my waist.

"I did some digging," he murmurs. "I think we should take a walk, Ana. You've been sitting in front of that thing for an hour." I subconsciously move my head to grant him more access to my neck, which he has taken to nuzzling.

"I have to find the recipe. After that we—A-hah!" I click a link that leads me to the correct list of ingredients. "Okay, grab my coat. I will meet you on the porch."

_Note to self: When you are actually pregnant, do not sit on low benches._

Even though the packs are just that—packs—they still enable you to feel as though you are pregnant. I learned this the hard way, when I tried to sit on the floor for meditation. When I was done, I rolled over and attempted to stand. Part of the pack had pressed against both my hip and my bladder and I had collapsed, paralyzed for a second. Unable to get up, I'd had to wait for Tony to come back to the house.

He had been of little help, of course, as for a good five minutes he had just stood there laughing at me before extending his hand to help me up.

After that experience, I have taught myself how to use objects as leverage. I push myself up from the bench, bracing my hands against the table. Then I hear the click of a camera and spin around. "Not funny, Tony. Delete the picture."

"Aw, but you're so cute, too." He grins impishly at me before extending his arm, my jacket slung over it. "I found something written on one of the stalls that I thought you'd like to see." I look at him. _Oh, clues, I love how you decide to surface two months into a case_, I think darkly before looping my elbow through his.

The air is brisk and clear, nipping at my cheeks and ears. This is my favorite weather.

"So, where is it?" I murmur, breathing deeply and shoving my hands in the pockets of the new hound's-tooth coat Abby had bought me. "Or is it not?"

"It's in the first stall." Tony leads me toward the horses. "This one is Aaleyah," he murmurs, stopping in front of the stall of a beautiful chestnut beast. "She likes oats. Dad gave her some and I have been ever since because she liked them so much." In the stall is a bag of what looks to be weeds, just out of the horses' reach. He nudges me and murmurs, "I think her name should really be 'Mary Jane,' though. She seems like a classic woman."

_Marijuana. Hmm…_

I nod and look past Aaleyah and point toward a black horse in the stall next to hers. "And who is that handsome fellow?" I ask, walking around Tony and petting the horse's nose. "Hello, beautiful."

"He—" He places a hand on the small of my back. "—is Naldo. He doesn't like oats as much. He's more of a molasses-sweet-feed guy. Very gentle."

I am captivated by their gorgeous, big eyes and long lashes. My hand glides over Naldo's silky, strong shoulders, leaning my chin against the stall door. "David," I murmur dazedly, "I want to ride one."

"No, no," Tony argues. "I don't think that's a good idea. Remember, the doctor said after twelve weeks…the whole 'placebo dismemberment' and whatever…"

I shoot him a disapproving look. "The term is 'placental detachment,' David. Pay attention. And I will not necessarily detach the placenta. Not if we go slowly enough."

"Oh, I'm sorry that I don't have …" Tony makes 'voodoo fingers' at my abdomen. "…that stuff."

Shaking my head, I place both hands on his hips and put my face as close to his as I can. "David, I want to ride. And what Ana wants…"

He rolls his eyes, and with a shake of his head, he concedes, "—Ana gets. I know, I know. But no more than a walk, okay? I don't want placebo—I mean…placental detachment."

* * *

Although I was itching to break into a trot—and then a full gallop—I resisted and reveled in the feel of Tony's arms around me as we slowly rode Naldo across the field. His reward to me for being good is the cup of hot apple cider I am now holding in my hands as I sit in his lap in front of the gorgeous slate fireplace. Abby and Gibbs have been gone for a week, again, and we can finally bask in the feeling of playing house alone…again.

I am broken out of my daydream—of teaching my children how to ride horses someday—when Tony gently takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips for a brief moment.

"How's the cider?" he asks, his voice low.

Resting my head back on his shoulder, I whisper, "The best I have had in a while."

"That's because I added a touch of cinnamon. Grandma's secret." In my ear, he murmurs, "Shh, don't tell anyone," before placing a kiss on my neck.

I can only manage a soft 'Mmmmm,' but he seems to accept that as a solid promise.

"So, Mrs. Stadelvard, do you have any plans this evening?" Tony presses his lips to the curve of my neck and shoulder. "I was wondering if you would accompany me to a movie." He takes the mug from my hand and sets it up on a table somewhere behind him.

"Well, that would be lovely, if I did not already have plans with my husband." I roll over and ease him down onto his back.

He smiles up at me. "Mm, and, if I may ask without intruding, what will these plans entail?" I trace his bottom lip with the tip of my finger, making sure my touch is feather-light. His eyes flutter shut, his lips parting slightly.

"I was wondering if you knew the dimensions of the claw-foot tub upstairs, actually. I thought perhaps it might be big enough to fit two people into it." A small smirk curves the corner of his mouth up.

"Oh, from what I saw earlier, you most certainly could fit two adults." Tony's hand comes down to rest on the side of my pack. "But what about three?"

I blush slightly, having forgotten about my fake pregnancy for a second, but wink. "I have books."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Tony slides from beneath me and rolls into a standing position, offering a hand to stabilize me while I, too, rise to my feet. He swiftly picks me up and cradles me in his arms, carrying me down the hall and up the stairs. When we get to the bathroom, he sets me down on the edge of the tub and murmurs, "Think they bought it?"

"They had better have, because I refuse to let those red-throats ruin our lives anymore, Tony." Looking him in the eye, I complain bitterly, "I saw Andrews Senior peeking out from behind the tractor earlier when we were riding our horses. And yesterday, he was slinking around behind the barn around the horse stalls."

Tony nods. "I know, Zeev. They're acting really suspiciously. I was thinking of taking a drive over there and asking how the search for Buck's going, since none of us have heard anything."

I almost offer to go with them, but stop myself. A pregnant woman should never confront a potentially dangerous man.

* * *

By the time Thanksgiving has rolled around, I am beginning to 'grow' even larger than before. I have taken to sleeping on my side, with Tony's arm around me to keep me propped up, because even in sleep, I have to wear the pregnancy pack. Gibbs' promise of only four months undercover seems to have gone forgotten, and my patience is wearing thin.

Clearing the table after our large family 'banquet,' with guests including Ducky, Palmer, Tim, Abby, and Gibbs, has proven difficult. As I am struggling over the threshold of the kitchen door, two hands firmly grasp the sides of the serving platter we had used for the turkey. I glance around the tall stack of dishes and see that Gibbs is on the other side of them.

"Thank you, Leroy," I murmur, a small smile adorning my face. "I hope it was as delicious as I intended."

"Well, Ana," he grins back, "I'm not sure I've ever had curried stuffing or sweet potatoes, but they were pretty damn good." Tony squeezes past us with a glass of wine. He is wearing a high-collared sweater, much like those he wore when I first started at NCIS, and a pair of dark jeans. Finishing his look is a pair of fluffy moccasins, with fur sticking out the rims. Gibbs and I exchange amused looks and my boss mutters, "I hope he helped you."

It is not a complete lie when I nod and tell Gibbs, "He did a fair share of the work." Tony had not only washed out the turkey, marinated it, and stuffed it, but had also helped me by cutting the potatoes I had peeled into large chunks. In addition, he had watched the pots and stirred their contents any time I had rushed to the bathroom.

The whole 'unknown-object-within-the-pack pressing on bladder' ordeal is growing very tiresome.

"Well, if it's any consolation, the food wasn't the only beautiful thing here," the older man compliments, bowing his head in respect and turning around to deliver the dirty plates to the sink. I feel someone poke my back and find Abby all but hopping behind me. An excited grin is spread across her child-like face.

"I know Christmas is right around the corner but when you told us you were having a baby girl it was just too much and I had to get this for you. Open it!" The Goth thrusts a bag toward me and I cannot help but take it. "I hope you like it. It kind of reminded me of things I've seen in movies, or in your pictures. You know, that one album you kept in your desk back in Virginia? Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you … I'm a snoop."

I shake my head in bemusement and open the bag, pulling out one of the most gorgeous baby's dresses I have ever seen. Cascading white lace and satin ribbons flow down my arm as I hold it out for a full view.

"It's a Baptismal gown!" Abby gushes. "I saw it and thought of you guys almost immediately."

I can only stare at it in shock until Tony wraps an arm around me. "Babby," I murmur, unsure of how to proceed. "Babby, it is beautiful … I just …"

"She's speechless!" Tony jokes. "Thanks, Babby. It really means a lot."

Abby bounces several times before exploding with, "There's more in the bag!" When I do not move to look, she rips the bag from my grasp, drawing out two picture books and a set of booties. "These were just too cute. I had to buy them."

Gibbs has taken a position in the corner, staring at us with an eyebrow raised.

"Thank you, Babby. Really, it means so much to us." Tony takes all of the gifts from Abby and sets off down the hall to find a place for them.

Suddenly, I feel very lightheaded.

"Ana? Are you okay?" Gibbs murmurs, crossing to me. "Ana, talk to me."

I raise a hand to my forehead and manage to get out, "I do not feel so well," before seeing the ground grow closer to my face. I hear a thud and then the sound of my heartbeat, and then everything goes black.

The last thing I hear before I fall into unconsciousness is someone shouting, "Call a bus. Ana's sick."

* * *

_A/N: **::gasps::** Oh no...Better read the next chapter to see what happened to Ziva...Not to ruin the story for you, but it wasn't Placental Detachment...And yes, I did do research about riding horses while pregnant. Don't judge me._


	19. Side Effects May Include Heartbreak

_A/N: I'm fairly certain my mom thinks I have a health issue and that anyone who passed me at school while I had the internet open thinks I'm pregnant. What I go through for you people... **::winks::** _

**_Disclaimer_**_: I do not own Thompson Hospital, if I mentioned it..I can't remember now._

* * *

When I wake up, I am nearly blinded by fluorescent lights, and can hear the faint _beep-beep-beep_ of a vitals monitor next to me. The pillow under my head is too firm for how I feel right now, and I feel like the rest of my body is floating on air. Two men are holding a hushed conversation in the corner and as I turn my head to look at them, I let out a moan, my neck sore.

"She's awake, Boss," one of them murmurs. If my vision were not fuzzy, I would have at least been able to decipher who the speaker is. I see the indistinct figure of the other man stand and leave the room. The first man picks up the chair he was sitting in and carries it over to set next to the bed. "Ziva?" he asks. His voice is easier to identify now. Tony.

"Mm," I hum, blinking a few times in a feeble attempt at clearing my eyes.

"How're you feeling, Zeev? You…you scared us." Tony reaches over and takes my hand in his.

I cannot think of anything to say other than, "I do not know." Even that comes out almost incomprehensibly. My mouth is dry, but do not have the strength to reach over and take the cup off of the table next to the bed. Tony, as if reading my mind, hands me the cup. "Thanks," I croak.

"No problem." He stares at me for a moment before murmuring, "The doctor's coming in soon to tell us what your blood tests said. Gibbs told him to only tell us when you woke up, but Ducky knows." I nod, too disorientated to answer. "Happy Thanksgiving, right?" he chuckles, a small smile on his face.

A nurse passes and notices that I am awake, calling a doctor over to my room. He is the same man who I have been seeing, so I am thrown off when he walks up to my bed.

"Miss Ana," Doctor Owens greets me, his blue eyes twinkling, "How are you today?" I give my shoulders a shrug and look away. "Well, I have your blood results here, and also took a look at you earlier as a preliminary exam, and it looks as though you have a small uterine infection. Have you been having any pain or nausea?"

"She's been peeing like a racehorse…" Tony mutters, but immediately silences himself at a stern look from Doctor Owens. "What? It's true!" I nod, but only because it _is_ true. I had blamed it on the pregnancy pack pushing in on my bladder, but there could have been another reason.

The doctor sits on the edge of my bed and pats my knee. "I think there's something you aren't telling us, Ana." I glance at Tony briefly and then shake my head, not because I am tired, but because I do not want to voice the story again. "Ana, you need to be honest with us, because we want to help you."

"Just give me the antibiotics and let me go home," I whisper, and Tony squeezes my hand. "Please?"

Doctor Owens shakes his head. "Unfortunately, Ana, we're going to have to keep you for a few days. We don't know what's causing the infection yet and if we let you go home with a generic antibiotic, the infection may get worse."

"But…but, Doctor, I—"

"This is not up for debate."

Tony jumps in. "Sir, my uncle is a doctor…he could probably take care of Ana just as well as anyone else."

"We need to run the tests." A flush rises in the doctor's cheeks and he storms from the room.

_That man is very strange._

* * *

"So then," Tony struggles to get out as he laughs, "Tommy shoved the cupcake in Bean's face, and the dog ran after him at full throttle. Nailed him in the groin." I wince, but let out a soft chuckle. "Well, it's a good thing we haven't slept together yet, right?"

I blink several times. "Pardon?"

"I was kidding…Just trying to get your attention."

"Oh." _Well, you certainly succeeded._

A nurse brings in my dinner tray and sets me up to eat. "The nice man in the trench coat told me you like Indian food." I look at the plate hopefully but when she lifts the lid, I am disappointed by the sight of Salisbury steak and green beans. "I know, hon, I love it too. But this is all we've got."

She hovers until I begin to open the package of silverware and then flits away back to her cart to deliver another dinner. As soon as she cannot see me, I shove the rolling table away and turn my head to stare at the wall.

"Didn't you hear them saying earlier that you've gotta keep your strength up, Ana?" Tony pushes the gravy around in the dish. "Mm…"

"This is absolute malarkey," I mutter darkly. "I am not sick. I have an infection. Is that not what medicine is for?"

He nods. "Well, yeah, but why couldn't your body fight it off? You've been eating and exercising well…it doesn't make sense."

"I'm _fine_, David," I state firmly, not meeting his eyes. "Absolutely, completely, entirely _fine_."

"Then why is your body infected, hm? There has to be something wrong…"

"No, there doesn't. It's probably just a little bit of a pH issue. Let me go home. Please? Sign for me?" I turn to him and look him dead in the eyes. "Actually, I could just sign for myse—" Gibbs rushes into the room, gesturing for Tony to follow him into the hall. My partner does so and slides the door shut. I can, however, still see them.

Our boss is telling him something very important, something that has him very concerned. They discuss this for several minutes before Tony returns to me and Gibbs whisks down the hall.

"Where is he going?" I ask, pulling the table back to sit in front of me and picking at the green beans. When I look up, I notice that Tony, too, looks rather flustered. "Is there something wrong?"

"Mm, I guess Adam and Tommy hung back at the house and someone tried to break in. Dad's going to check the damages." As I struggle to reach my knife, Tony pulls the table toward him and cuts the steak in small pieces, beckoning me to lean closer to him. Eyeing him suspiciously, I obey. "Open." I let my jaw drop slightly and he gently pushes a piece of the steak between my lips with the fork. As he draws it away, a drop of gravy lands on my lip. Instead of laughing, he wraps my napkin around his forefinger and dabs the gravy away.

"Thank you …"

"No talking. Eat." Again, I am met with a forkful of food, this time green beans. The innocence of his feeding me instigates a soft blush in my cheeks. "Babby's bringing in a bag of all your stuff. Like a brush and another set of clothes." As I chew, he cut the beans into smaller bites, as if feeding a child. "And—" Tony's phone rings loudly. "Ugh, be right back. It's dad."

As he traipses out of the room, his seat is refilled with Doctor Owens.

"I see you're eating, so you must be feeling a bit less aggressive, Miss Stadelvard." He smiles haughtily. "I need you to do me—and you—a favor. Comply with all of my tests and we'll have nothing to worry about. Mm-kay?" The glint off of his teeth and the gleam to his eyes set me on the defensive again. "Now, sweetie, get some rest."

"There is nothing wrong with me, is there?" I ask venomously. "You are in on all of this, too, aren't you?"

He only smiles and leaves the room at approximately the same time Tony returns. "What was that all about?" my partner murmurs, suddenly very cheerful. "Did he get the results of the test?"

"No. I have a weird feeling about him."

_Weird is an understatement._

As Tony helps me finish my dinner, I cannot defy the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.

* * *

On the way back to the house four days later, after I have been poked and prodded with all sorts of equipment and asked humiliating and upsetting questions, Tony has been unable to take his eyes off of me for more than five minutes, in what seems like fear that I will pass out again.

Suddenly, he softly says, "Zeev, I'd like to take you to dinner."

I draw my eyes from staring out the windshield to look at him. His eyes sparkle and there is a trace of concern in them.

"Why?" I murmur, absentmindedly rubbing the spot my IV had previously been attached to my hand.

"Because, you've been through hell this week and I feel as though you deserve something better than a night at home." He gently takes my hand in his and murmurs, "Hey, you're okay now. You can smile."

Despite the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, I shoot him a small smile. "That sounds lovely. Thank you." Tony gives my hand a soft squeeze and lets it go. "Tony, I just…I just feel as though this is one of the most complex and misleading cases we have ever dealt with."

"How do you mean?"

"Look," I murmur, turning to him, "first, Director Vance directed us here, to Canandaigua, because Navy and Marine personnel had gone missing. Not only have we not found them, but now Buck—our first suspect—has also disappeared. His father is incredibly … _sketchy_, and Doctor Owens is not much better." My heart is racing as I finish speaking, and for a second I worry I am going to faint. After a few deep breaths, however, I am fine.

Tony glances at me and then pulls into the driveway of our house. "What did the doctor say to you?" Putting the car in park, he turns toward me and gives me, _'Tell-Me-Everything-You-Know'_ look that Gibbs mastered years ago.

"He threatened me and said that if I complied with all of his orders, nothing bad would happen. He refused to tell me what was wrong."

"When was this?" Tony withdraws his cell phone from his jacket pocket and begins dialing a number.

"It was the first night I was at the hospital, but…" I trail off as the recipient of his call answers.

"Yeah, Bridget.—Hi, yes, Ana's fine. Listen, could you do me a favor and run a name for me?—Thanks. It's 'Peter Owens.' I'll wait." While this _Bridget_ person runs Doctor Owens' name through the database, Tony mutters to me, "I had a bad feeling about him." _Bridget_ comes back. "He what? Okay, thanks." His phone beeps several times and he presses a button on the touch screen.

As I watch, he dictates, "Doctor Peter Owens, PhD. Won some awards in College…basketball, soccer—blah-blah-blah—Purple Heart in `Nam…okay, well, seems he has a clea—Whoa."

"What is it?"

"Ziva, we've got ourselves some new incriminating evidence." Turning the phone toward me, he points toward a paragraph. "Read that."

The text reads that after he returned from the Vietnam War, he suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and was treated at New York State Psychiatric Institute. After a brief psych evaluation, he was hired at Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua as an obstetrician/gynecologist. He almost lost his job, however, when a woman declared he murdered her father.

The woman's name was Martina Jackson.

"We have our killer, then, and the man who kidnapped Buck," I state matter-of-factly. "But why was there marijuana in the stall? And why is Buck's father so obsessed with the goings on of our farm?"

"And why," Tony wonders, "don't we know the locations of the servicemen we were sent here to find?"

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Gibbs asks from his stance behind the counter. "You think this case is linked to another case from Israel?" Tony and I nod curtly. "Give me reasons."

"Well, you see, it all revolves around the one drug cartel out of Colombia." Tony crosses the room, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator. "Looks like, surprisingly enough, the case from Ziva's past in Mossad." Gibbs looks at me and I bow my head, slowly beginning,

"In Israel, I investigated a drug cartel that, as Tony mentioned, was based in Colombia. The Secretary General of the Knesset was found dead in his bathroom two days after he stated that there would be no more trade between their country and ours—or, rather…Israel." Gibbs nods for me to continue. "In his lungs, our medical examiner found traces of arsenic and belladonna. During the investigation—which I led alongside Michael Rivkin and his father—we found that he received a box of cigars the night before he died."

My boss nods. "So you're saying this may be another attempt by that cartel?"

"Yes, Gibbs. I do."

"So, what do you propose we do about it, Boss?" Tony asks, sipping his beer. "Do we make ourselves? Let ourselves be made?" He dips his chin in my direction. "And what about Ana's pregnancy?"

Gibbs thinks about it for a moment before softly stating, "There isn't a 'David and Ana Stadelvard' marriage anymore. There is no pregnancy. Owens knows everything. We need him to think we don't know he does."

"What's that mean? We're going undercover while undercover?" My partner laughs. "Yeah, that's gonna go well."

"It _means_," the older man snaps, "you're pretending he doesn't know. Both of you. You're leading him into a trap. Sooner or later, he's going to fall into it."

Tony and I exchange disbelieving looks. If Doctor Owens knows I am not pregnant—since he always has—and now also knows we are up to something potentially harmful to his illegal operations, why should we be pretending to be a newlywed pregnant couple still? Before we can question Gibbs, however, Abby runs into the room.

"Guys! There's something going on with a cow!" the eccentric woman cries. "I think it's having a baby!" She stares pointedly at Gibbs and Tony. "Well, come on, you two! It's your job!"

* * *

Four and a half hours later, on the straw-and-dirt floor of the warm barn, safe from the freezing rain and chilling winds, Gibbs has—with the help of Tony and a certified veterinarian—delivered a beautiful Black Angus calf. We at NCIS can now add that to the list of things Leroy Jethro Gibbs can do, making him appear to be even more of a super hero. For a moment, we can all forget the danger at hand and revel in the sight of new life and the beauty of innocence. As the mother licks her baby clean, Tony wraps an arm around my waist, resting on the side of my pregnancy pack.

Five-and-a-half months. Fantastic. In two weeks, we would continue the case as NCIS agents. The connection between Tony and myself would be gone. We would no longer be able to play house and get away with stolen kisses, massages, lounging on the couch all day, or flirting with each other as we have been.

Laying in bed, I consider sleeping on the couch in order to acclimate myself to once again sleeping alone. As I roll over in an attempt to leave the bed without disturbing my partner, a hand snakes around my—rather large—waist. Into my neck, Tony whispers, "Don't go."

Turning my head a centimeter, I murmur, "Why not?"

"Because," he tells me, "I can't sleep alone."

_Neither can I._

_

* * *

_

_ A/N: I hope you enjoyed it...I'm thinking there'll be two or three more chapters. It's coming to an end...but don't worry. I have many more ideas in store for one-shots. Ooh rah! Love, Kat_


	20. Someone to Watch Over Me

_A/N: Mm, this one was tough to write, simply because I had a lot to do. I had to write a script, two stories, and I had rehearsal and classes and a dinner with my Youth Court director and it just all piled up and POOF, here it is. **::smiles::** I hope you enjoy it, but I don't want you to be mad at me about anything that happens. Or doesn't happen. Have at it._

**_Disclaimer_**_: I do not own Tippi Hendren, The Birds, or really anything else in this other than the plot. _

* * *

After dreams full of cows, babies, and copious amounts of cappuccino ice cream—of course, that was just because I have not been able to have any for quite some time, for some reason—I wake to a gentle hand on my back and a kiss to the crown of my head. "Morning, sunshine."

"Mmpht," I groan, rolling over. Opening my eyes, I find myself looking up into Tony's face, mere inches from my own. "Hello." I stifle a yawn for fear that I have morning breath.

"Your breath doesn't smell," he reassures me quietly, as if reading my thoughts. "Nothing about you smells. You smell good. All the time."

"Have you been drinking this morning?" I ask with a chuckle, relishing in the feeling of him on top of me.

"No, of course not. Why would I have?" Knowing I do not believe him, he lets out a soft sigh, which tickles my lips and makes them tingle. There is not a hint of alcohol on his breath. I grin up at him. "There, trust me now?"

My incredulous stare should speak for me, but I still feel the need to retort, "I always trust you. Whether I buy your oftentimes crazy stories is another matter…"

"I haven't told a crazy story in quite a while, though. I've been good," Tony mutters, a small pout forming on his lips. "Doesn't mean I don't have crazy thoughts, though." His words are almost like an afterthought.

"And what, Mr. Stadelvard, are you having crazy thoughts about right now?" Tony gazes down at me, a surreal depth to his incredibly blue eyes. "David?"

Hoarsely, he says, "Doing socially reprehensible things with my gorgeous wife," before capturing my lips with his and rolling both of us over so that I am lying on his chest. I feel a tug at my hair and see that one of his hands is tangled in my locks, the other running exhilarating lines along my jaw. We only break once to breathe before his lips are attacking my neck, and I know they are leaving patches of red as he works his way to the center of my collarbone, where he pauses and continues up the other side.

When he reaches my mouth again we are back to kissing like fiends. My tongue finds its way to his mouth, trailing across his lower lip, then dancing with his in a sort of tango. I am so entranced that I barely notice when my vocal chords emit a low moan. Tony stops immediately, pulling back enough to look into my eyes.

"Are—you—okay?" he asks breathlessly. "Too fast?" I shake my head and kiss him. Hard. Wrapping my arms around his neck, and my legs around his waist as I flip him over on top of me, I let my body press against his. I feel so wanted, so needed, so—dare I say it—_loved._

I let my fingers rake through his hair, squirming closer to him when I feel his warm hands working their way under my pregnancy pack. But I am not squirming out of discomfort; rather, it is out of desire to be rid of the pregnancy pack completely. His lips leave mine and I hear myself emit a hum of protest, but am soon contented when I feel his lips on my jaw, trailing kisses back and stopping below my ear, nipping a small patch of skin. I jump when his teeth make contact with my neck but ease into him, my eyes fluttering closed.

"Ziva," he whispers, so hushed I can barely hear him.

"Mm," I murmur, unable to say much else.

"Would you be opposed to—" Before he can finish, I roll onto my side and slip beneath the covers. _This stupid thing is coming off._ Shimmying out of the pack, I hastily pull my shirt back down to cover my abdomen and pull myself back on top of the duvet and sheets.

Casting him a curious look, I ask Tony, "Would I be opposed to what?"

"Never mind." He carefully tucks a loose curl behind my ear and cradles my face in his palm. "We kind of started something bad, huh?"

"But is bad not good?" I smirk at him, but my stomach flops. "What did we start?"

"I…" He hesitates. "Temptation, Ziva, is not a good thing to have." Tony stares at me solemnly, removing his hand. "Not when you're partners. Not when…Rule Number Twelve."

"Tony, I thought married couples made out regularly?" I rise to my knees and lean back onto my heels. "I thought we were supposed to—"

Tony squeezes his eyes shut and rolls onto his back. "I know," he murmurs. "I know."

And before, when I felt so wanted, so needed…now I feel completely alone. I furrow my eyebrow and lay back down, turning away from him.

He does not say another word.

* * *

The tension lasts well through breakfast and partly through the afternoon until Gibbs passes through the kitchen and gives us both a head-slap.

I look up. "What was that for?"

Gibbs stares at me icily before murmuring, "For being stupid." This has caught Tony's attention and he looks up from his newspaper. "What's more important? Your own … 'thing', or solving this case?"

My partner and I both murmur, "Solving the case." A light flush rises in my face.

"Good. Then get to work. You can deal with each other later." Our boss heads toward the kitchen door. "I know it's tough, but could you at least_ try_ to look like you want to be married?" Winking, he whisks outside, most likely to tend to the new mother in our barn.

While daydreaming about the calf and its adorable nature, I feel Tony's eyes boring into the side of my head. "Staring at me is not going to solve the problem."

"Didn't think it would."

"You are insufferable," I snap.

"Hey, I'm not the one shoving my tongue down your throat."

I narrow my eyes. "Who kissed whom first, hm? I believe that would be you, saying you have 'crazy thoughts' about doing 'socially reprehensible things' with 'your wife.'" He just looks at me for a few moments before averting his gaze to the floor. "If you had not wanted to kiss me, you could have resisted. Then we would not be in this mess."

Tony's head snaps up. "You think it's that easy to not kiss you whenever I see you? To just say, 'Ah, fuck it, better luck next time' and walk away?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Is it not?"

"_No!_" he shouts, jumping to his feet. He takes several strides away from me and paces back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't you know what it's like to see someone and want to just grab them and never let go?"

"Is that not why we are fighting?" I reply snidely. "Because we both want the same thing?"

"We _can't_," he hisses. For a fleeting moment I am worried that Tony is going to punch the wall, and I know very well that he would never hit me, but his temper often gets the best of him. He takes a deep breath and walks out of the room. Ever the determined woman, I follow him.

"Why can't we?" I murmur, stopping so that I am safely behind the counter. "Is it because of a rule that _your father has_ or is it more of a question of fear?"

Whirling around, Tony drops his voice very low to say, with pain in his very blue eyes, "It's got nothing to do with fear. Nothing."

"Then what _does_ it have to do with? Is it about your pride? Is it because you still want to be that promiscuous college boy that you regale everyone with tales about?" I stare at him, trying to make eye contact. He avoids my eyes and I let out a sigh of frustration. "You are scared of commitment. I understand that. But I do not think I should have to suffer."

Tony shakes his head. "If I were scared of commitment I would have refused to do this assignment."

"Just like Jeanne, right? You were scared of committing to her so you told Director Shepherd you could not follow through, hm?" I blurt. As soon as the words are out, I realize I have made a horrible mistake. "Tony, that is not what I—"

Somber, he takes several steps toward me. "Yes, it is. It's exactly what you meant." He retreats two paces and runs a hand through his hair. "I treated her like shit. I know it. I don't deny it. I should have told her sooner. But that doesn't help me, does it? Because I've already proven to you that I'm a dick."

"You're not, Tony," I argue, sighing. "But you have some pretty bad judgment sometimes."

"Bad judgment?" His lip curls upward. "Really? I have bad judgment? I was trying to save my job. You were just sleeping with a terrorist."

Jaw slack, I stare at Tony for a moment. "Are you implying that my judgment is poor?" There is a fleeting moment that I think perhaps I might hit him, but I clench my hands at my side and restrain myself. "I see."

"No, I'm saying that you and I haven't really made the best decisions. Neither of us is right, neither of us is wrong." Tony looks at me, but I can tell he is not finished talking. "You let Rivkin do to you what I did to Jeanne. You let him use you. And then I had to pick up the pieces."

Blinking away tears, merely because his words sting worse than the realization that they are true, I cross my arms, though keeping my eyes trained on his. "You realize, I hope, that I tried to pick up the pieces after Jeanne, right?" He tries to break eye contact but I duck my head, determined to hold it. "Because I _cared _about you. I did not want you to be in pain anymore than I would want to be."

"You have no idea what I went through, Ziva," he snaps. "You think it was a joyride? Really? That it was all rainbows and butterflies?" I shake my head. "Sure you do. But it wasn't."

I glare at him. "I would appreciate it if you did not tell me what I do and do not feel, Tony." After a moment, I murmur, my voice dangerously quiet, "Maybe I was wrong about you."

"What do you mean?"

Drawing a shaky breath, I elaborate, "You are revealing a version of Tony that I do not care for. An assumption-driven, angry version." When he says nothing, I declare rather loudly, "I do not think I would ever be able to handle being married to you."

"Oh, no? And why would that be, Ziva?" Tony yells, throwing his hands in the air. "Because I don't just roll over and take whatever shit you decide to give me on a given day? Because I'm not daddy's little prize?"

I shake my head and swallow hard. "No, because people who love each other would never use such hurtful things from the past against the other. You obviously do not love me, and I cannot believe there was any possibility of me loving you, so there is no point in even trying." Slipping the ring off of my finger, I press it onto the cool, granite countertop. My jaw is set. I try to remain calm, but inside, my heart is beating a million times per second, my palms are clammy, and I can tell there is a flush rising in my cheeks.

Tony stares at the ring for a second before picking it up and holding it out, looking on the inside rim. It is obvious that he is hurt by my statements. "The point is looking where you normally don't. In this case, it's the inside," he tells me softly. Tossing me the band of gold, he turns on his heel and walks out. I hold it up to the light the second he is out of the room.

**Non posso vivere senza di voi.**

I gasp and clench the ring in my palm, pulled back suddenly to the intense, cloying, hot air of Somalia, tied to a chair, staring into his eyes.

"_Why are you here?" I stared at him, searching his eyes. _

_I was not expecting him to say, "Just couldn't live without you, I guess…" His small laugh did nothing to cover up the truth to his words._

And now I had accused him of not caring about me. How heartless could I possibly be?

* * *

Three hours later, I have finally worked up the courage to talk to Tony again. As I approach him in the piano room, where he is playing various chords, I notice his back is once again tense.

"Tony," I mumble, "I apologize for earlier." He does not look up. "I should not have accused you of not caring about me." Again, my words go unanswered. "I know you do, and you saved me, and your words from Somalia have not gone forgotten, and—" He chooses this time to turn and look at me. I cannot bring myself to finish.

After a pregnant pause, he murmurs, "Yeah, Ziva."

"What do you…?"

Averting his eyes to the piano keys, I hear the words I have been waiting for. "Apology accepted."

"Thank you."

"Yeah."

Another lengthy silence ensues, during which I am slowly drawn toward him by some unidentifiable force. "Tony?"

"Mm," he hums, pressing an 'A'.

"Non posso vivere senza di voi." I whisper.

"Yeah, what about it?" Tony's voice is raspy.

"Why did you choose that quote?" He takes a while to answer. After several minutes, I prompt, "Tony?"

He looks up at me. "Yeah."

"Why did you choose—"

"Because it's _true_, Ziva." There is desperation—a sad, angsty desperation—in his eyes, glittering beneath their rim of long lashes. Imploring me.

"What is true?" My stomach flops.

"I can't live without you." Tony stands and makes his way over to me. "Just…can't."

"You can't?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

This is one of the few awkward conversations he and I have ever had.

Hesitantly, I tell him, "I could say the same about you."

Tony stares down into my eyes. "You could?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess we shouldn't." A large hand finds its way to the back of my neck, cradling my jaw, tangling in my hair.

"Should not what?" It is a miracle that he can even hear me, my voice is so low.

But as his lips near mine, I hear him sigh, "Live without each other."

Never before has a kiss ever felt so good. So right. So fresh, so old, and so comforting. _All at the same time._

* * *

Dinner is cut short by a movie on television that Tony insists would look better on the flat screen in the bedroom. After I rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher, I join him. The weather has turned even colder, my pack larger, and it seems as the stairs have grown taller.

How incredibly frustrating. When before I could easily sprint up the stairs without feeling winded, I must now take them a step at a time, grasping the railing.

Five minutes later, I am at the top of the stairs, catching my breath and pressing a free hand to the arch of my back. If this is what it is like to be pregnant, I am not sure I want to have kids after all.

Especially when my mood swings are as extreme as they are _without_ the hormonal changes pregnancy can initiate.

As I climb into bed, I see that Tony is already nestled into his pile of pillows and has the blankets and sheets pulled up to his chin. I, too, slip beneath the covers and snuggle up next to him. Out of the corner of my eye, light from the lamp catches on my ring. I smile to myself and rest my cheek on his chest. "What are we watching?" I ask.

"_The Birds_."

"Am I going to be scared?" I mutter, keeping my voice light and face partially covered by the duvet.

He chuckles, and I hear it rumble from inside him. "It's mostly psychological," Tony murmurs, smiling. "And besides, I'm right here." Pressing a kiss into my temple, I can hear the smile on his voice.

_Yes, you are. You always have been, and you always will be._

No sooner has the movie begun than I am pressed into his side, hiding my face in his shirt. "The birds, the birds!," Tippi Hedren shrieks, fleeing from a swarm of white seagulls. And it is this moment that I know.

I have another fear to add to my ever-growing list.

* * *

_A/N: Hey, so, yeah...I don't like it when Tony and Ziva fight. So. I hope this was good. Five more chapters. The countdown begins. **::smiles::** Enjoy..._

**_PS: _**'_Non posso vivere senza di voi_' roughly means _'I cannot live without you_,' if you couldn't already guess... **::laughs::**


	21. History

_A/N: Hello, once again. I'm sorry for the delay. Classes have been nuts, I've had a wretched bout of writers' block, and I've been focused solely on becoming an expert of continuity. 'What is an expert of continuity?' you ask. An expert of continuity is someone who can tell you backward and forward mistakes of continuity that television shows, books, movies, etc. have made when forming the plot of their work. Please send me a personal message if you would like to know my findings thus far! I look forward to it. On a more serious note, I am torn between disliking Jeanne for her treatment of Tony and liking her for teaching him how to love. As of right now, I'm more geared toward disliking her, because she was manipulative. How cool would it be for her to come back and be like, "Hey, Tony, guess what? I forgive you." __**::angry chuckle::**__ I would be so mad… Thank you for being so dedicated to this fan piece. I really appreciate all of your support. _

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own __NCIS__, __Canandaigua__ (or any of the outlying towns/cities I may have mentioned in this chapter, previous chapters, or future chapters), __Dean Martin__, '__That's Amore__', __TJMaxx__, __Lipton Tea__, __Tony DiNozzo__, or anything you think I don't own. I really wish I did, though, because I'd have this fiction and a bunch of other great items if I did in fact own it all. But alas, I don't. All I own—through blood—is my mum's restaurant and motel. The Lafayette. __**::smiles::**__ Oh, and my bedroom. And technically, the house that Tony and ZIva are in right now. But that's okay. No one needs to know…_

* * *

Tony has changed my ringtone again, but I only find that out when I am suddenly broken out of sleep by the loud chorus of, "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's 'Amoré'!"

Groaning, I reach over to the bedside table and fumble for my phone, knocking the cordless house phone from its charging port and equally sending a pile of CDs cascading to the floor. Finally, I grasp the small rectangle of annoyance and wedge my thumb inside the hinge, flipping it open.

"Hello?" I croak.

"Ziva!" Abby's cheerful voice rings through the speaker. "You awake?"

"No." I want nothing more than to just collapse back into my pillow. There is something in my stomach, however, that bothers me. Some sort of feeling. "Is everything okay?"

"Mm, kind of."

"What does 'kind of' mean?" I sit upright and rub my eyes, stifling a yawn.

There is a long pause, during which I hear Gibbs in the background. He says something that sounds like, "Look, Babs, can't we just—" before Abby cuts him off. There is a shuffle and a high-pitched, "No!" followed by a giggle, and the Goth girl is back on the phone. "Ziva, you're never going to believe what we found."

I relax slightly and, keeping my voice low, murmur, "Does it have to do with the case?" My partner shifts his weight and the bedsprings creak. Wincing, I vow to keep the conversation even quieter.

"What?" Abby blurts. "Oh. No. We're at this place called TJMaxx…It's a store in town, right? And they've got this _entire baby department_. You and I have to come here because it's just absolutely fantastic. I mean, there are rubber duckies and books and bottles and pacifiers and bibs and—"

"Abby," I murmur, cutting her off, "I'm not actually pregnant." I feel Tony playing with my hair and I glance over my shoulder to see him sitting up against the headboard. He is staring at me and it takes much strength to not let my eyes graze over his strong shoulders and chest. "This is getting out of hand. _Way_ out of hand."

There is a loud chuckle and then Gibbs states firmly, "Alright, Babby, let's go." Abby says nothing more but I hear a click and the call is ended. Shrugging, I close the phone and set it back on the table.

"Zeev-ah," Tony says softly. I turn around, bringing all of my hair over my left shoulder with a free hand.

"Yes, Tony?" I reply.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Could it have been, 'Ziva, may I change your ringtone?'" I inquire jokingly. He breaks into a grin and shakes his head. "Well, then I have no idea."

"You were on the phone. It would've been rude to ask." Smiling, his eyes twinkling, he sits there looking at me. "Anyway, I was wondering if we could go get some breakfast?"

* * *

The Lafayette is busy this morning, and it takes a good thirty minutes for a table to open up. When we sit down, in the Dining Room this time, at a lovely table for two, my feet accidentally rub against Tony's. He does not move them. Neither do I.

The waitress smiles at us. She is not the same waitress from the first time we ate here, for lunch, but she looks familiar. "Good morning! My name is Martha. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Ladies first," Tony murmurs. The toe of his Italian leather shoe grazes my ankle and causes the butterfly-feeling in my stomach to erupt.

"Hot tea, please." I fold my hands on the table and smile up at Martha. "What flavors do you have?"

She thinks for a moment before counting off, "Green, Apple Spice, Peach-Mango, Chamomile, Earl Grey, De-Caf and Regular _Lipton_."

"Green tea! Thank you!"

Martha nods and turns to Tony. "And for you?"

"I…would like a cup of regular joe." Again, I feel his foot against mine. "But instead of creamer, can I have a little bit of skim milk?"

"Anything you want, sir." To both of us, she smiles and murmurs, "I'll be right back with your drinks," before she disappears around the corner.

I stare at Tony across the table for a moment before turning my attention to the menu. _Mm, Stuffed French Toast? Spinach Feta Omelet? _There are literally fifty different items to choose from and each sounds even more appetizing than the last. I am considering having a grilled cinnamon bun and scrambled eggs when I catch him looking over the top of his menu at me.

"May I help you?" I murmur, smirking slightly.

"Yeah. You definitely can." Tony sets down the menu and takes my hand, leaning forward. His voice drops so low that I can barely hear him, but I make out enough to know he is talking about a couple in the corner. As if I am looking at my surroundings, I turn, taking in the green wallpaper, lace curtains, and photos on the wall. While I am doing so, I see a woman with brown hair and features very similar to our victim's. When I face forward again, I nod at Tony to let him know I see them.

"So, David, what are you getting?" I run my thumb along the bank of his. "I am torn between several options…"

He nods. "I think I'm gonna play it safe and get the Big Breakfast Special..." Reading the menu, Tony recites, "'_Two slices of the toast of your choice, your choice of two eggs and meat—three slices of bacon or sausage links, one patty sausage, slice of ham or one veggie sausage—and home fries._' That's…a lot of food."

"That it is, David. That it is." I again examine the laminated sheet of paper. "I really feel like splurging…"

"Then splurge," he mutters bluntly. "You deserve to. Look at you." I gaze at him in confusion. "Well, I mean, you're pregnant…you need a little bit of splurging." Tony coughs, embarrassed. "_Ahem_, so, what were you thinking?"

With an eyebrow raised, I tell him, "Either scrambled eggs with a grilled cinnamon bun with nuts, or the stuffed French Toast with raspberries…"

"Oh man…Maybe I can get a grilled cinnamon bun in place of the toast…" Tony licks his lips hungrily. "That way, we can split it." Eyes sparkling, he shoots me a sweet smile. "Okay, darling?"

I return the smile and look up just in time to see Martha come back with our tea and coffee. "Here you go!" she chirps. "Have you decided what to order?"

"I believe I will have the stuffed French toast on regular wheat…with raspberries." Pouring water from the teapot into the mug at my place setting, I smile up at the waitress. "Eating for two, you know."

Martha nods and rocks on her heels a bit. "I thought so. How far along are you?"

"Almost six months," I answer, dunking the teabag into the water. "Only a little while longer yet."

"Wow, congratulations!" she croons. "Boy or girl?"

"We were told it is a baby girl," I explain, "but you know how unreliable medicine can be sometimes."

Martha nods, turning to Tony. "And what'll be for you?"

He looks up at Martha and smiles. "Uhhh…the Junior Breakfast Special with home wheat, scrambled, and—" He thinks for a moment. "The veggie sausage."

_Is he trying to lose weight…?_

"Oh, and a grilled cinnamon bun with nuts, please." Tony grins at me and I roll my eyes in return. "Thank you." Martha nods once more and disappears. "I thought maybe if I was going to 'splurge' on the cinnamon bun, the least I could do is get a small breakfast." I feel his grasp tighten on my hand and glance down at it. He is inspecting my ring.

I stifle my laughter and flip his hand over so I can look at his. "Does yours say anything on the inside?" I ask softly. Tony nods and lets go of my hand, slips the ring off of his finger and hands it to me.

**Tu sei mio amico.**

_Sitting in the dark, in our desk chairs, one with the popcorn, one with the drinks. "Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime?" he asked me, a big grin spread across his face._

"_It is just a movie, Tony," I murmured, taking the cup from my partner. His expression of half-hurt, half incredulity caused me to smirk. He passed a drink to me, put the popcorn down on a table between us and then sat, remote control firmly in hand._

"_How dare you? Is Mickey just a mouse? Ringling brothers just a circus?" Tony interrogated, settling into his chair. My answer of 'yes' only fueled his argument. "Well, you see, that's why you don't have any friends."_

_I sat straight up and looked at him, jaw slack. "I do have friends!"_

"_Really?" he asked. I nodded. "Then what are you doing with me, watching a movie on a Friday night at work? Huh?"_

_After considering his statement, I softly tell him, "You are my…friend." It was completely true. My fear of his reaction—which would probably be more intense than I was ready for, or maybe less than I wanted… —caused me to regret my words almost as soon as they left my mouth._

_Surprised, he turned to me, staring into my eyes. "Really?"_

_I 'chickened' out, terrified of something happening. Or not happening. "No…my date cancelled."_

"_Mine too." Although we exchanged a small smile, I did not miss the disappointment flicker on his face._

I am brought back to the present when he coughs quietly. "I was not lying back then, that night with the movie. And…I wanted to marry my best friend someday," I whisper, staring at the gold. "I did."

"What?"

"I was not lying. You _were_ my friend. You…" I play with the string of my teabag. "…_are_ my friend."

Tony just grins at me. "I know."

Martha returns with our food just as I am going to say that he was obviously more than _just_ a friend, so my thought process is hindered by the scents and sights of the food. It all looks delicious, especially the cinnamon bun.

"Oh my goodness…Thank you, Martha," I murmur, lifting my fork and knife. She flits off to another table, leaving us alone.

We eat in partial silence, exchanging flirty glances and smiles and jokes every now and then. As I am about to take my last bite of my French toast—which was more of an 'indulgence' than I have allowed myself recently, what with the slightly sweet cream cheese filling and warm, gently tart raspberry sauce—I am struck with a thought.

"David, this restaurant has been owned by the same people for forty-six years." Setting down my fork, I reach for my cell phone in my purse. "That is really saying something!"

I send a quick text of, "Got a lead" to Gibbs before looking at Tony.

"I'm not following," Tony murmurs, finishing off his coffee.

I lean forward, under the pretense of pouring myself more hot water. "I want to talk to the owner. She must know everything about this town. Who better to discuss Canandaigua with as a pair of new citizens than someone who has been here for forty six years of her life?"

Realization flashes in his eyes and he nods, smiling and taking a bite of the grilled cinnamon bun. "Alrighty, then, let's ask about that." I retrieve a compact mirror from my pocket and open it, running a hand through my curled locks. I glance over my shoulder in the mirror and see that the brown haired woman is still there, staring down at her own cell phone with what look to be tears in her eyes. Tony and I nod at each other, a silent vow not to involve her just yet. We can get a subpoena later for the credit card slips of the day as long as we remember the date … and as long as she uses a credit card.

When Martha returns, we ask her whether it would be okay for us to talk to the owner of the restaurant, if she is there. At the waitress' brief expression of concern, we reassure her that everything was delicious but as we are new to the area, we want to talk to her and grow more accustomed with Canandaigua. She nods and leads us through a red swinging door to a back room, where a woman in a scrub top and jean capris is flitting around, cooking and baking.

"Nancy," Martha says over the loud whirr of the mixer, "a couple wants to talk to you." The woman stops the mixer and spins around, a wide—but slightly alarmed—smile on her face. "Is that okay?"

Nancy approaches and wipes her hand on a wet cloth, then extends it for us to shake. "Hello, I am Nancy Higgins. How may I help you?"

I take her hand and introduce myself as Ana Stadelvard, throwing in a quick compliment of, "My breakfast was delicious."

Tony, too, nods and shakes Nancy's hand, murmuring, "David Stadelvard. Your grilled cinnamon buns are phenomenal…"

Nancy's face breaks into a wide, relieved grin and she replies, "Thank you. I'm so glad your breakfasts were enjoyable. But…" She pauses. "There is something other than food that you wanted to discuss?"

I see my partner shoot Nancy a kind smile before hearing him say, "Yeah, there is, actually. We're new to town, and since you've been here for a while, we thought we'd like to ask you a few questions about the area."

The woman takes a seat on a stool next to the counter. "Sure, go for it!"

Tony begins the questions. "This is a pretty quiet town, right? Not a lot of crime or anything?"

Nancy shakes her head. "We have our fair share of news, but most crime happens up in Rochester. Our Community College, of course, has student housing, and the cops are up there every night for fights or parties." Thinking for a moment, she continues, "And, I mean, no town is completely spotless. We have our own jail and there's a curfew for under-eighteen-ers, but other than that, not much really happens here."

I jump in with, "Before we bought the house we now live in, someone broke in. Is that common?"

"Whereabouts do you live, Ana?"

"Almost in Cheshire," I reply, judging from her expression we have assumed correctly that house robberies are rare.

Nancy again shakes her head before elaborating. "If you were near Farmington, or Victor, I'd say you'd have a better chance at your house getting broken into. But Cheshire's a pretty safe environment. You're more likely to find a cow trespassing on your property than a human…unless it's the owner of the cow." She winks, and Tony raises a valid point.

"But, they're not unheard of, you're saying? Like, robberies are rare, but they've happened before?"

The older woman nods and tells him, "Well, yes, you're right." Turning to me, she reassures, "But really, if this is where you're starting a family, it's a great place to do it." Nancy glances at the loaves of risen bread dough behind her on the counter. "You don't mind if I work while we talk, do you?" Both Tony and I shake our heads, and she starts pressing raisins into the dough. "Anyway, do you have any other questions?"

"I do!" I exclaim. "Do you know the Andrews family? Or the Jacksons?" Nancy's face grows stony. "We live down the road from the Andrews' farm, and I guess the Jacksons lived in our house before we bought it."

"Bill was a regular here for a long time," she answers finally, rolling up the dough around the raisins. "The waitresses said he was a good tipper and never gave them problems. Always ate whatever they gave him, even if the kitchen sent out the wrong thing." _Completely the opposite of what we have experienced…_"And then his sister left. He was never the same after that."

"Where'd she go, Nancy?" Tony asks, sipping coffee from his cup.

Nancy shrugs. "I haven't the foggiest idea. I've heard rumors of Texas and then of Virginia. Her son, Arnold, tried to follow her but she wouldn't have anything to do with him after he married a girl from Arkansas." _Martina._

"Oh," I gasp, "what a horrible reason for disowning your son …" I subconsciously bring a hand to cradle my stomach. "Did Arnold live around here?"

"Yes. He kept the house that I assume you're living in now. He wasn't really ever there, because he joined the Marines as soon as he turned eighteen, but when he and his other military friends—the ones who're missing now, ironically—were all home, he'd have small parties. My daughter was invited to a few of them." Nancy rolls the dough out flat with a metal rolling pin and sprinkles it generously with cinnamon sugar. "Let me see if she's still around. Her dad might've come to pick her up." She squeezes past us and out a red door, taking a left after what appears to be a cooler and disappearing.

Dropping my voice, I whisper to Tony, "If Jackson's mother ever took out her anger on Martina, that may explain why she's in a mental hospital."

Tony, obviously in disagreement, shakes his head and mutters, "As awful as Jackson's mom might've been, I don't know as anything she could ever say would be traumatic enough to land Martina in that bed." There is a pregnant pause before he adds, "If the information Gibbs got from her is true, Mom might have been doing herself a favor by getting away from Jackson."

I am about to agree and add my own bit of information when Nancy returns with a brunette young woman in tow. She shares the former woman's big brown eyes, pronounced cheekbones and wide smile. "Ana, David, this is my daughter, Lydia." The girl briefly squeezes Tony's hand, and then mine. _Picture perfect lady…_

"My mom said you live in Arnie Jackson's old house?" Lydia asks. Tony and I both nod. "It would be easier for me to show you than to tell you …"

"Show us what?" Tony inquires, turning to provide Lydia with some extra room to slip by him and down into the kitchen. She comes back with her cell phone clutched tightly in her slender hand.

"Well," she begins, "pictures, texts … You guys seem like the helpful sort."

Not understanding, I prompt, "'Helpful sort,' Lydia?"

"Yeah. Like, 'civil servants' or something." The woman thrusts her phone's screen at me. "Those are the three guys who went missing last year."

"What about them?" Tony questions, taking the phone. He texts the pictures to his own cell phone, deletes his information from hers, and hands it back to her.

"They were at a party about three days before they were reported 'missing' by their wives." Lydia shrugs. "The ladies are really nice. Kind of stupid, and very floozy, but nice." Taking a deep breath, she continues, "Adam—that one, there. The really hot one with the scruffle and pretty green eyes—he was really drunk and said something about how if 'that idiot tried to sell him anymore of that damn pot,' he'd have to 'kill him.'"

I furrow my brow, trying to comprehend the chain of events. "Pot, as in…"

"Yeah, marijuana," Lydia confirms. "Anyway, they were all laughing and whatever, having a good time, and then out of nowhere, Arnie's cousin—Buck, I guess he goes by—punched him square in the jaw and told him not to make petty threats unless he was prepared to follow through on them."

I nod, understanding how Buck may have felt. "So, Buck was angry?"

"Mm, no," she replies, her phone vibrating. She stows it in her jeans' pocket and focuses her attention on us. "More like scared." Tony and I exchange a glance.

_Why did the chicken cross the road? To get away from a murder charge._

* * *

_A/N: I hate dentists. Just saying. Okay, so, you can all probably assume that I made a Mary Sue for myself…but she's not really a huge role. Trust me. If she's not been introduced until the twenty-first chapter, there's not much more that she can do than pass along a message. Also, my name is Kathryn, not Lydia. Ironically, though, my mother—whose name is not Nancy, either __**::smirks::**__–was going to name me Lydia, Sadie, or Samantha. So, there's your little tidbit of trivia about me today…_

_PS: Just saying, those grilled cinnamon buns are fantastic. –Tony D._

_PSS: Just saying, my partner is a dimwit whose life is centralized around food and sex. –Ziva D._

_PSSS: __**Just saying**__, my characters have taken over my laptop… -Kat. _


	22. You and Me

_A/N: Hello...Um...If you haven't already done so, please read the update that I put in my Author profile. **::groans::** It'll explain why this chapter is so...long overdue. I'm sorry for the wait. Really. I am. Most of Lydia's experiences are based off of my own. **::blinks::** Please save your pity. **::laughs hysterically::** Enjoy._

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I do not own St. Mary's Church...I don't own the Bible...I don't own Jesus...Nor do I own** The Princess Bride**. I really wish I did own it, since it's one of my favorite movies, but, alas, perhaps for Christmas I will...Oh, right, and I don't own any music that is mentioned. As for the religious aspects of this chapter, please don't take offense. _

* * *

Tony eyes Lydia suspiciously. "Scared?" he asks. "Why would Buck be scared?"

She shrugs and brings up another picture, this time of the Andrews family. "There's always been something really odd about the entire family. Buck and I went to the College together, down the street, and he asked me out the third week of classes."

"So he went to school?" I murmur. Lydia lets out a peal of laughter. "Why is that funny?" I, too, chuckle and inch a bit closer to Tony, who runs his hand along my palm. A shiver goes up my spine, but I cover it by bracing my other hand against the plastic shelving behind me.

"It's funny because I know you assumed that farmers don't go to school," she explains once she has controlled herself. "I did, too, until I saw about seven cowboys walking through the halls within an hour." Letting out a large sigh, Lydia smiles. "Anyway, yeah, he went to school. He wanted to be an engineer."

"An engineer…" Tony eyes her. "What kind of engineer? Farm-related, maybe?" He is obviously joking, but not flirting, when he normally would be. I smile to myself, savoring the feeling of knowing he only has eyes for me. "Anyway, what kind of degree did he want?"

Lydia thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. "He never really told me that part. I know he was into chemistry and really liked math, but I didn't talk to him after he asked me out."

I let out a chuckle. "You turned him down, then?" Lydia nods. "May I ask why?"

"He was just a creep." She winces. "Well, okay, let me explain…"

My partner laughs, before Nancy jumps in with, "Yeah, Lydia, I think that would be a good idea." Though her mom has a silly grin on her face, the girl sends a small glare in Nancy's direction—as many daughters do at some point or another.

Lydia sucks in a breath and then lets it out slowly. "He and I were in the same Theatre class. I sat between him and one of my best friends, Ben. Somehow, Buck got my cell number and texted me and asked me out. I told him I was in the library and he was all, 'Oh, okay, that's cool,' and we met there," she tells us, her eyes flashing. "And then, of course, he comes and sits with me, and a few of my friends, and proceeds to act like a freak and not talk."

Tony nudges my side and murmurs, "Probably what Adam was like in college."

"Anyway," Lydia continues, "Arnie texted me later and apologized, and then the weirdo asked me on _another date_. I said no."

I look at her, and see her blushing. "May I ask why, Lydia?"

She presses her lips together and blinks several times. "He said he'd like to try going on another 'date,' even though the library is far from what I would consider a date to begin with. I said it depended on my course load. He said he'd like to take me into the woods so we could 'talk.'"

My 'husband' chokes on his coffee and I take his hand in mine. "Are you okay, David?"

"I'm fine, Ana," he gags, before stating to Lydia, "I don't think much 'talking' would be going on, anyway."

She nods. "Yep, I know. That's what my best friend, Noelle, said. That he would probably try to rape me." Lydia shudders and takes out her phone once more. "If you want, you can have his cell phone number. I haven't talked to him in months, so it might be outdated, but it's the last one I was given."

After we have written down the number and Lydia has disappeared out front, we head to the cash register to pay for our breakfasts. Nancy, however, stops us, insisting that our breakfasts were 'on the house.' Not that I exactly know why our breakfasts are on a roof, or on a house … Why would someone put food on a house anyway? It must be an idiom that I have yet to learn. I seem to remember hearing it somewhere but, since I cannot remember where, I push my curiosity to the back of my mind and focus on the problem at hand, vowing to ask Tony about it later.

As we leave, after copious amounts of 'Thank Yous', Tony and I exchange careful glances. "Have we checked the woods, yet?" he mutters, opening the passenger side door for me. He doesn't need me to answer him before stating, "I'm gonna need backup. I'm calling Dad." Swinging down into his seat of the _Mustang_, he groans.

"What's wrong?" I ask, instinctively placing a hand on his forearm.

"Nothin'. Gibbs isn't going to be happy about this, though." My partner starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.

Halfway home, he takes my hand in his. I turn my head to look at him and see him staring out the windshield with glossy eyes. It is one of those beautiful, silent moments. One of the moments one dreams of having, with the man or woman they love. Where no words need be spoken, where nothing matters, except for the silence. He and I rarely have those moments. I cherish every one of them.

_Because you never know when it could be your last silence._

* * *

As far as I am concerned, going out to dinner can wait until we return to Virginia, but I know as well as anyone that when Tony is determined to do something, there is no talking him out of it.

Therefore, I slip a purple maternity dress over my head and poke my arms through its sleeves, praying I look halfway decent. The weight on my bladder and hips—as well as the weight pulling against my back and shoulders—is growing uncomfortable enough that I cannot wear high heels anymore. Sighing, I scan the closet and slip on a pair of gold flats, clip a gold Star of David around my neck, and hook ovals of the same color through my earlobes.

Tony walks out from the bathroom toward the bureau, and then turns around, doing a double take. I raise my eyebrows as if to ask, 'What are you looking at?' He only grins and approaches me.

"You confuse me," I mutter, shaking my head. Staring into the mirror, I slip a bobby pin between my lips and hold it there, clipping back my bangs. Before I slide the metal in place, I see Tony make a face of displeasure, and I let my bangs fall back across my forehead. "Why do you look at me like that?"

"Because, you look hot," he states bluntly. "You're gonna make a sexy wife someday. Hey, can we name the baby 'Stacey'?" I crinkle my nose in confusion. "What, you haven't heard the song _Stacey's Mom_?" When I shake my head, he starts in with, "_Stacey's mom has got it goin' on…_"

"Oh, the degrading one that talks about tigers," I say, bringing all of my hair over one shoulder.

Tony laughs. "Ana, you mean 'cougars,' and yeah, it's that one." A beat. "Anyway, you look fantastic." He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him. "Not just fantastic. Beautiful. Amazing. Gorgeous. Phenomenal. Breathtaking. Incredible. Stunning. Magnifi—"

I press a finger to his lips and softly tell him, "I get it, David." Drawing my finger away, I replace it with my lips, gently letting him know that he is understood. "Anyway, sir, where are we going?"

"No, no," he argues, "I made reservations. Unfortunately for you, you won't know the name of the restaurant until we get there."

Pouting, I ask, "Then how will I know what to order?"

"It's a good restaurant, Ana. Trust me. I did more at Wegman's a few weeks ago than just shop." Tony gently sways me. Whether he realizes he is doing it is a different story altogether. "Besides, where's the adventure in your life?"

I smirk. "Being pregnant. Marrying you. Moving here."

He makes a face at me teasingly. "Other than that, my love." Placing a kiss on the end of my nose, he continues to button his shirt and then pulls on a pair of dark jeans.

I am struck with a thought. "David?"

"Mmph?" he mumbles around the tie he is holding in his mouth.

"What time are the reservations for?" He looks down at his watch.

"Fevven-firty."

"Would you … I know you are not religious, but would you mind if we went to Church? The nearest Synagogue is in Rochester—I checked online—but I was hoping…perhaps…we could just go sit in on a Mass?" I clasp my hands together and look at his reflection in the mirror, watching him as he considers my proposal.

After he fixes his tie and is ready he nods and takes my hand. "I haven't been to Church in years. Dad always made me go when I was younger, and then when I graduated from High School and moved to Ohio, I guess I lost touch." After a brief pause, he stares down into my eyes and murmurs, "It'd be nice to get back to that again, I suppose."

"Well, we were married in a Church."

"But we never took up the practice."

"Does that matter?" I gaze up at him, both in concern and contentment.

"Nope," Tony says curtly. I feel my expression turn slightly devious, and hope he can translate my softly narrowed eyes and smirk correctly. Drawing closer, I see him angle himself slightly to make room for my protruding stomach.

"Since the invention of the kiss," I whisper, just barely keeping myself from grinning, "there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure..." _The Princess Bride_. It remains one of my favorites. I like the idea of forbidden love, if I have not made that clear already…

"Is that a movie reference, Mrs. Stadelvard?" Tony asks proudly. I nod and he adds, "I knew I married the right woman." His lips are on mine in a matter of seconds, gently but accurately transmitting passion into each massaging stroke. He finally shaved, so as I raise my hand to his jaw, I smile to myself at how smooth his skin is.

Tony wraps a gentle arm around my waist, curving it above my pack and splaying his fingers across the side of my ribcage. While he is tender, there is no question about his feelings.

When we break apart, although it is obvious neither of us want to, both Tony and I are breathless. "Do we really need to go to dinner?" I ask, grimacing at how whiney it sounds.

"If we leave now, we have time for Mass, Ana," Tony moans, tracing my cheekbone with his thumb. "I thought you wanted to go?"

I sigh and tell him, "I do, David. I do."

-break-

The back of the church is empty. St. Mary's is a stunning Roman Catholic Church in Canandaigua, its beauty lying not only in the unquestionable fact that it is God's house, but also the stained glass windows, marble pillars, cherry-wood pews, soaring Sistine-esque ceiling, wine-colored carpeted aisle, and the altar itself. Risen above the rest of the building—out of respect for Christ and God—there are gilded crosses and accents, a beautiful pulpit, and tabernacle.

I can tell that Tony is wondering why I wish to go to Mass when I am clearly Jewish. However, the Torah and the first five books of the Old Testament are the same stories. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. They teach of the same creation, the same struggles, the same journeys. The same God.

And if I cannot get to a Synagogue, I had might as well sit in a Church.

Tony and I remain seated as the others begin to file toward the Priest and Eucharistic Ministers to receive Communion, but I soon feel the urge to at least get a blessing. Any pregnant woman would. _Anything to protect our baby. Anything to start a fragile life off right._

I take Tony gently by the hand and lead him to the end of the pew. He stays close behind as we wait in the receiving line, and follows my lead as I cross my arms over my chest and bow my head, asking the priest for a blessing. We return to our pew and I kneel, and he does too, watching my every move.

As I quickly say a Hebrew prayer under my breath, I keep my eyes closed. _Ahmen_. I glance over at Tony and watch as he kneels there, looking rather lost.

"Do you know the _Our Father_? Or the _Hail Mary_?" I whisper. He nods and closes his eyes, folding his hands and starting his prayers.

_Yahweh…lead him to you_, I pray. _Not to Judaism, necessarily, but to your loving Grace in general…_

The priest returns to the altar, cleans the Chalice and Paten, and replaces them both to their shelf behind the altar. When he sits down, we scoot up onto the seat of the pews and waits for his blessing for us to leave.

On the way out, he pulls us aside and smiles.

"Hi, I'm Father McGregor," he introduces himself, taking my hand. "Are you new to the area?"

His kind smile makes a perfect first impression for me, and I can tell I am not the only one who has been influenced. Tony shakes Father McGregor's hand and says, "David Stadelvard, and this is my wife, Ana. We moved here about four months ago."

The priest nods and says, "Ah. Well, welcome to our parish." His eyes flick to my Star of David and he looks at me with a small smile playing on his face.

"I did not take Communion, Father," I reassure, "I only received a blessing. I know it is unconventional for a Jewish woman to come to Mass."

"Ana, the only thing we disagree upon is the coming of the Messiah. I believe He came two thousand years ago. You believe He is still coming." Father McGregor stares into my eyes with reverence and understanding, mixed with compassion. "Either way, we believe in Him, and in God, and that's all that matters." Looking between us, he murmurs, "You are both welcome here anytime. I'm so happy you came."

We say our goodbyes and head to the car, where Tony unlocks it and gets in without saying a word.

Before we go into the restaurant, his deep voice cuts through the silence. "Thank you."

"For what?" I ask, turning to him.

"For showing me what I've been missing out on."

* * *

_A/N: Well, there's Chapter 22. Three more chapters, I'm thinking. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you. Love, Kat_

_PS: Dinner was delicious, by the way. -T  
PSS: Mmm. They have yummy tea. **::grins::** -Z  
PSSS: Dinner was more delicious because you went with me and held my hand... -T  
PSSSS: Shhhhhhhh! -Z  
PSSSSS: Oh, stop, it's just like Paris. Stop ying about it all. -T  
PSSSSSS: STOP! -K_


	23. Stolen

_A/N: Hello..I apologise for the lateness of this chapter. I'm kind of disappointed in the lack of reviews on the last one, actually...I hope you all enjoyed it. Perhaps the lack of reviews is actually a good thing? I don't know, you tell me. I'm surprised no one wanted to know my hypotheses about Tony and Ziva and Jeanne and stuff from a few chapters back. I suppose Curiousity Killed the Cat, right? Anyway, this chapter was difficult to write. I'm not sure why. Oh well. Did you all watch this week's NCIS? Please tell me you did. If you're a Tiva fan, you have to watch it. I ended up dancing around my living room, squealing. Freaking...FINALLY. **::grins::**_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ Erm, I don't own Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra. I equally do not own the College of which I speak. I don't own Jane Eyre. I don't own NCIS. I do, however, own the word 'glitterier.' **::smiles::**_

* * *

It did not take us much longer to find Buck, approximately three and a half weeks. He was not as we had wanted him—alive, so that we could take him back to Virginia and draw answers out of him—but we came across his body in the woods. I suppose it was not so much 'we' as it was Gibbs, McGee, and Tony, but I did sit in the house making dinner with Abby, awaiting their return.

A little hike in the woods for the three men—three weeks after Tony took me to Mass and dinner—yielded the discovery of a small hut, nestled among trees and covered with snow. Over baba ghanoush and hummus, Gibbs explained that, according to Ducky's approximations—after the trio had followed his instruction for internal temperature—Buck had died at least four weeks prior to NCIS finding him. From the lack of evidence of forced entry, Tony said it was safe to assume that Buck had killed himself. I imagined that to mean he was feeling guilty over the circumstances of his own cousin's death.

Of course, sitting here now, cuddled in Tony's arms, reading Jane Eyre for what must be the hundredth time, alleviates the morbid thoughts. I am staring into the pages, drowning in the perfect world, perfect life, of the 1800s. I can almost see myself in a beautiful bustled gown, in copper and trimmed in black lace. In this fantasy world, I have a fascinator perched on the side of a tower of cascading pin-curls, my makeup natural but alluring, stunning chandeliers clipped to my earlobes, and topaz gems strung around my neck…

I am brought to reality by warm breath on my neck, followed by the gentle caress of soft lips against my skin. I turn my head slightly and feel Tony nuzzling my hair. Letting out a low chuckle, I raise my hand and run my fingers through his hair, cradling his head. "Well, hello," I murmur, turning the page.

"Hi," he whispers, rubbing his hand against my arm. "Don't your eyes ever get tired?"

"What, when I am reading?" I ask, and then shake my head. "I love this book." Tony nods and I feel his forehead rest against the back of mine. "Have you ever read it?"

"Mmph," he mumbles. "I've been reading over your shoulder." I settle into his chest.

He has put on a bit of weight since I met him in 2005. That was five years ago. He was slender then, very muscular, and obviously maintained quite an active lifestyle. I never noticed his weight gain when he was dating Jeanne, so it must have been after that.

Nevertheless, he is still extremely handsome, borderline sexy. It is surprising that more women do not throw themselves at him half as hard as he throws himself at them. The way his eyes glitter when he is passionate about something, the way he grins sometimes—either suggestively or not—and the way his nostrils flare and tendons in his neck stand out when he is excited or angry … It is wrong of me to compare him to Michael, but Tony is far more attractive.

Looking back on it, yes, I loved Michael. There is not a doubt in my mind. However, Tony has been the only constant. Now that we have agreed upon the circumstances—that we are attracted to each other—there are two outcomes to the assignment.

The first is that we continue seeing each other after we go back to Virginia. The second, we go back to NCIS and continue deluding ourselves until it is too late.

As unfortunate as it is, I foresee us following the latter path. Letting out a sigh, I turn the page. But I have not read a word.

* * *

Groaning, I lift my head. '_Somewhere, there's a someone for everyone. Somewhere, there's a someone for me..._'

"Hello?" I answer, my voice hoarse.

"Ziva, get DiNozzo on the phone." Gibbs is not pleased.

I shake Tony's shoulder and press the phone to his ear. "Mmph?" he groans, rolling onto his back. A second later, however, he has jumped out of the bed and is pulling on a pair of jeans. "Yeah, Boss," he blurts, running out the door.

"David?" I ask, rolling off my edge of the bed and waddling after him. "David, come on. Where are you going?"

Tony spins around and looks at me very pointedly. "Dad needs my help."

"Is something wrong?" I chase him down the stairs as gracefully as I can. "David, tell me what is—"

When we reach the bottom, he whispers in my ear, "Problem at the College. I'll be back soon." My stomach flips and I must be noticeably distraught, because he kisses me briefly and, bracing the back of my head, looks straight into my eyes. "I promise I'll be fine." Without another word, he grabs his wool coat and sprints out the door.

I am almost to the kitchen to prepare myself a cup of tea when my cell phone, which Tony had pressed into my palm before his exit, begins singing again. I answer wearily and am greeted by Gibbs' stressed voice.

"`S'Tony there?" the older man asks, his voice somewhat raspy. "I need him. Now."

I glance out the window, pulling aside the lacey curtains. Tony's car is not in the driveway. "No, Leroy. He left a moment ago. Is everything okay?"

"There's an issue at the College. Forget it. Stay put. Call if you need anything."

Stressed-out Gibbs is less fun than Angry Gibbs.

"But, Leroy—" Before I can get out another word, Gibbs has hung up on me and I am alone in the house, in silence.

In my opinion, silence is bad. It means that things are abnormal, unless you are with someone, and there is an aura of contentment around them. For example, Tony and I can sit in the same space without having to talk, because we know each other well enough. For me to have to sit in this house all alone, however, is nearly unbearable. It sets me on edge and makes me want to…

Clean.

* * *

When Tony calls me around noon, I am in the upstairs bathroom, curled up beside the toilet, close to vomiting due to the cocktail of chemicals in the orange bucket sitting next to me. I drop the scrubby brush and sponge into the ammonia-blended-soapy water and pull the rubber gloves off of my right hand, pulling the black cell phone from my pocket—which is conveniently wedged at an odd angle due to the pregnancy pack around my waist—and flip it open with my chin.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Zeev. Our cover's definitely blown this time," Tony murmurs. "Gibbs says he doesn't care, because that's the point of the trap."

"So, we are supposed to just go along with it as though we think he does not know, even though we know he knows but does not think we know?" I ask him, rolling back onto my heels.

There is silence, and then he says in concern, "Are you feeling okay? Your words are slurred."

Now that he mentions it, I do feel rather lightheaded. "I am cleaning the bathroom."

"Oh, okay. Well, be careful," he states. "I'll be home by four. We have paperwork and evidence to look over and discuss."

"What happened?"

"Dead Naval Officer found under a utilities bridge." I let out a soft gasp and he goes on. "He was obviously dumped there. Since Ducky can't get up here right away, Gibbs is actually _letting_ the Canandaigua P.D.'s M.E. look over the body for right now."

I lackadaisically squeeze water out of the sponge with my other hand and run it over the base of the toilet. "But Ducky is coming?"

"Should be." There is a tussle in the background and Tony hesitantly says, "Okay, Zee-vah, I have to go, but I'll be home soon. Be careful. Any problems, call me." I assume he has hung up but am pleasantly surprised when he whispers, "Love you, bye."

Smiling, I reply, "Love you too. Bye." _Then the click_. What is unsettling is not the statement that has just left Tony's mouth, but the fact Tony has—without faltering—said he loves me.

_Screw Rule Number Twelve._

* * *

True to his word, Tony returns home before four. Granted, it is three-fifty in the afternoon, but he kept his promise. As a reward, I have planned on preparing roasted two Cornish Game hens—for an extended period of time so they are tender and not dry—that Gibbs bought at the market, smashed potatoes with cream and butter, and blanched green beans for dinner. Looking around the kitchen, I had sighed. There had been something out of place, something not quite right. I had, however, shrugged and, after flipping through a cookbook I had found in the cupboard and carefully deliberating, decided to make chocolate mousse for dessert.

Tony returns unnoticed. The Dean Martin/Frank Sinatra mixed CD that I had found is on nearly full volume, covering any sounds. When I feel a pair of eyes trained on my back, I slowly turn toward the source, preparing myself to fight if necessary. I see that it is only Tony, leaning against the counter, and relax slightly. Though he is staring at me slyly, I feel relieved.

"Something smells amazing," he declares, walking around the island and crouching down in front of the oven window. His nose grazes my thigh as he rises to his feet. "Mm, some_one_ smells amazing." Looking at me with a curious expression on his face, he murmurs, "Vanilla?"

"It is my new fabric softener. I saw a commercial for it online yesterday." I stir the chocolate ganache, nearly tipping over the glass double boiler when I feel his hand against my leg.

His eyes are deeper. Glitterier, if that is even a word. They are like the sea. There is a hint of green, a splash of blue, and diamonds.

"Smells lovely," Tony murmurs, dipping his head against my ear. "Sexy, even." I smile up at him. "What's for dinner?"

"Smashed potatoes, Cornish game hens, green beans, and chocolate mousse for dessert," I list off, satisfied by the hungry gleam in his eyes. "Gibbs picks out excellent meats. This should be, the way I prepared and roasted it, that is…this should be the most tender Cornish hen you have ever had."

Letting out a low chuckle, he agrees, "I bet it will be." Glancing at his watch, he turns for the door and states, "I've gotta shower before I eat. The scene was cold, but really muddy …" I am about to admonish him with, 'You'd better not have tracked mud across my spotless floors!' when he grins and points to his stocking feet. "I'll be down for dinner…" With a wink, he taps my backside and walks out the door saying, "…Sweet cheeks."

_What a man._

* * *

Tony groans, taking a bite of the Cornish hen. "Ana, this is insane."

Bowing my head, I blush and murmur, "Thank you."

Out of nowhere, he asks, "Aren't you supposed to … like … be on bed rest?" I look at him oddly. "Well, I mean, you're seven months in …"

Shaking my head, I let out a small giggle. "No, I do not have to be on bed rest."

"You're seven months in, Ana," Tony repeats, and his voice is soft, as though he is both uncomfortable with the topic while wanting desperately to talk about it. "Don't you think you should?"

"No!" I can tell my face is screwed up with my annoyance. "Dr. Owens told me that I have not yet had any of the normal _reasons_ for bed rest. Okay? So why confine myself to a bed if there is not a reason?" I shake my head. "I have better things to do with my time."

My partner reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Ana. Dad wants you to rest." My eyes narrow. Why am I so defensive all of a sudden? "Really…"

Dropping my voice, I hiss, "We should not _be here_ right now, _David_. Leroy told us we would be back home after six months. That deadline was four weeks ago."

"Dad only wants you to be safe. He wants grandchildren," he retorts, setting down his fork. "Don't you see? You're doing too much."

I am on my feet in seconds, which is more than I have been able to say for myself over the past few weeks. "I. Am. Not. _Pregnant_!" I shout. "How many times do I have to tell people that? First Abby, and now you? It is bad enough having to wear this ridiculous pack all the time, but _leazazel_, Tony, I am _not_ going to delude myself into thinking that this assignment is real life!" Out of breath, I hug my abdomen. The pack is pressing against my diaphragm, making deep intakes of breath very difficult and slightly painful.

Tony is silent for a while, and thoughts of how I could have better phrased my outburst race through my head. When he finally speaks, I am unsure of how I myself will respond. "So, you're saying it would be better for us to finish out the assignment and then, when we go back to Virginia, forget this all ever happened?" My breath catches. "I don't know as I could do that, Ziva." His voice is raspy.

"That is not what I meant…"

"Then what _did_ you mean, Ziva?" he demands, looking at me, a wild gleam to his eyes. There is a hint of pain in them as well, however, and I am seeing how much he really does care. "Go ahead, lay it on me."

"You do not know what you are asking." I squeeze my eyes shut to bar myself from his livid and hurt form.

"Yeah? You wanna bet?" Tony argues. "I don't _want_ to forget. I don't _want_ to pretend. Isn't it enough that I just want you?" My eyes spring open and I am face to face with him.

"What about Gibbs' rule?"

He shakes his head. "To hell with Rule Number Twelve, Ziva. It's us. Tony DiNozzo and Ziva Davíd." When I do not comment, the hurt man drops his gaze, carries his plate to the trashcan where he empties it, and saunters to the hall. "The files are in my bag. I'm going for a drive. Call me if you need anything."

Before I can apologize and beg him to stay, he is gone. Sighing, I begin cleaning up from dinner, only stopping when I hear the doorbell, followed by a knock on the door. "Coming," I call, assuming that it is Tony. That he forgot his keys or something of the like. Or, perhaps he has come back to beg forgiveness.

I am faced with nothing, and am just closing the door when I hear the upstairs fire-escape door crash open. I duck for the pantry and close the door as quietly as I can behind me. I dig in my pocket for my phone and am in mid-text when I hear gunshots. I watch as my phone dies from lack of battery power and am reduced to praying, especially when I hear footsteps crossing the room toward me.

I am so terrified that I forget to breathe.

When the doors of the pantry are swung open, I gasp in shock. There was Doctor Owens, standing with a small pistol, aiming the muzzle directly at me. He stares down at me with an expression of excitement plastered on his face.

"Well, hello, there, Miss Stadelvard_,_" he says through a sickening smile. "So very nice to see you again, my dear."

"What do you _want_, Doctor Owens?" I snap. "Why did you break into my house?"

Owens lets out a belly laugh. "Oh, Ana, you're so incredibly dense." I stare at him, half quizzically, half in terror. "You know things."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

Ignoring me, he repeats, "You know things. And, you're coming with me, and we're going to talk about them. Okay?"

"My husband is going to come back and see this and realize what happened," I threaten. "He will call the police and then they will find you."

"We'll see about that." He reaches forward, pressing the cold muzzle of his pistol into my temple as he rakes his hand through my hair and pulls me upward in one painful sweep. "Walk."

I am too confused not to.

* * *

_A/N: Okay. There you go. Two chapters to go and then you're done. **::waves::** Ta!_

**_Note:_**_ Leazazel means 'Damn' if you didn't remember!_


	24. Fear

_A/N: She's baaaa-ackkkkk. **::said in creepy voice...::** Happy week of Halloween! I just became aware yesterday that at my college, we're encouraged to dress up in costume Thursday and Friday of this week. I'm therefore torn between being Ziva (I did buy a Star of David pendant for my costume, after all) and Kate. Perhaps, I'll go as Ziva on Thursday and Kate on Friday? Oh, no, wait, the Shabbat starts on Friday, right? So that would be more fitting for Ziva since she's Jewish! **::grins:: **I'll figure something out. Feedback is very much appreciated, though! Okay, so, this chapter is pretty nuts. It switches between Tony's point of view and Ziva's, because otherwise, you'd just be staring at walls and stuff. One more chapter to go, y'all...one more chapter and then this saga is over. But not to worry! **::grins even wider::** I just became the victim of several plot bunnies that refuse to be ignored. Alright, people, just start reading. You can even skip the Disclaimer! (not really, it's witty this week.)_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I don't own Gibbs' rules, nor do I own that adorable orange watch he's wearing nowadays. **::makes heart out of hands::** I unfortunately do not own the Hail Mary. I do believe in God. If that bothers you...Well, I can't really tell you not to read the story, because you've gotten to chapter twenty-four ... I suppose I can ask you not to hold it against me? I'm a nice person! **::grins::** Really...Okay, get reading. Oh. Wait, no, the concept of LINAS came to me at midnight last night when I was finishing this chapter. It sounded like something that may exist. If it does...alert your local police station and let them know LINAS' whereabouts. Get those perverts off of our streets. **::frowns deeply::** I can't beLIEVE that people are so crass and disrespectful toward women. If you find a sweet man out there, let me know! Okay, NOW you may read._

* * *

I awaken a few hours later tied to a chair in a room with a dirt floor. Dim light filters through grimy windows and reflects on each tiny dust particle in the thick air. My throat feels raw and I know that if I try to speak, I either will not be able to or it will be hoarse.

Something feels different, and I look down to see that the pregnancy pack has been removed from about my waist. Under other circumstances, this would be a relief. But I have been taken hostage, _that_ I can see quite clearly, and now there is no choice but to drop my persona of Ana Stadelvard.

Alone in the room, I find myself wishing Tony knew where I am. The last time I was held captive, I thought perhaps I would never get out alive. Tony, McGee, and Gibbs came to save me. Unfortunately, I somehow do not feel that I can plan on that. The only way I will be able to escape is through wit and skill, both of which I am rusty in doing.

The door creaks and I wrench my neck as far as I can to see who is on the threshold. The angle he has my chair in the room prevents me from doing so. My shoulders tense when two large hands clamp down on them. Hot breath plays with stray curls by my ear.

"I would say your name, beauty, but I'm afraid I don't know it," a cool voice hisses in my ear before yanking on my hair. I bite my lip to prevent myself from screaming, drawing blood. "Be a nice little beauty and tell me who you are."

Shaking my head, I croak, "Not unless I can see the face of my captor." Whoever the man is, or his companion, swiftly kicks my knee and I hear a loud '_pop_', followed by searing hot pain shooting up and down my leg. With watering eyes, I swear to myself that I still will not scream, and allow myself a few unsteady breaths, which do nothing for the pain.

Although he has hurt me, and knows it, the man steps around the chair and across from me, leaning backward casually against a water-heater. "Hello, beauty," Dr. Owens murmurs saccharinely, clad in an ivory suit, blue satin tie, and silver dress shirt. His shoes are brown, and he holds in his hand a wooden walking stick with a gold ball on the end of it. I shiver at the nightmares I had about Saleem's staff, emitting a shallow gasp. "Now, beauty, please…disclose to me your name." Tapping his right palm with the gold ball threateningly, he stares me down. I know that if I do not answer him, he will follow through on his unspoken threat.

"I am Ziva Davíd. I work for NCIS," I state softly, staring at the ball as if mesmerized. But the daze is out of fear. I do not want his staff to be out of my sight for a moment. Somehow in my mind, it adds up to mean that if I cannot see it, bad things will happen. Painful, horrid things…

"What is NCIS?" A low chuckle rises from his chest.

Gulping, I satisfy his question. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"And what, my beautiful Zee-vah, do you do?" Dr. Owens steps forward and begins circling my chair counterclockwise, as if stalking prey.

"I am an agent," I state tersely, jumping as the wooden staff comes down hard on the back of my chair. It does not, however, strike me. While I want to sigh in relief, I instead hold my breath.

Again in front of me, Dr. Owens shakes his head and waves his staff at me. "No, no, pretty. You are obviously not American."

"Au contraire," I snap. "I stood at my Naturalization ceremony nearly one year ago. I am an American, if not by blood, in heart."

Dr. Owens ignores me and drones his next question. "How long have you worked for NCIS?"

"Almost six years."

"And you are married?"

"No." Furrowing my brow, I stare at the staff in confusion.

There is a full belly laugh from Dr. Owens before he leans forward on the staff, commanding my attention for a moment. As I glance at his deep silver eyes, I am welcomed with none of the warmth from our previous appointments, but rather the cold bitterness of a take-none-for-dead murderer. I am greeted with the types of men I see on a daily basis. I am greeted with the polar opposite of Tony, and Gibbs, and McGee. Palmer, Ducky. Director Vance.

I am faced with my father.

* * *

"No, Boss, I don't know where she is," I argue nervously from the kitchen window into my cell phone. "She was here when I left, and now she's nowhere in the house. I looked in every room and tried her cell phone what must be a hundred times, but that isn't gonna help us, because it's been stepped on…"

"People don't just disappear, DiNozzo," Gibbs snaps. "D'you want help finding her? Is that what you're saying?" There is a long pause, during which I debate whether to agree or deny the need for his wisdom. Just as I'm about to answer, Gibbs gives me a muffled, "Be there soon."

I bite my lip, staring out the plate glass at gently falling snow, wishing she were there with me to snuggle up in front of a fire and watch a movie or drink hot cocoa. There's a feeling in my heart, like pressure squeezing it on all sides, and I know I'm stepping into some pretty dangerous territory with Ziva. Pretending to be in love and being in love are two different things. I know that from experience. The whole Jeanne mess is something I never want to go back and do over again.

People always say, "Dude, if I could, like, go back…and do that over again, I would." Not me. No. I never want to go back there. I never want to see the pain in Jeanne's eyes when I told her it wasn't real. I never want to fall in love with her again. I did that once. That's good enough. I learned my lesson. No more love for DiNozzo. Got it.

But then I saw _her_. And now…now _she_ is missing. "Ziva…" My beautiful partner's cell phone lay in pieces on the floor, the hinge resting inches from my shoe and the battery across the room from me next to the pantry door. Abby, luckily, still is with Gibbs, and in an hour, she can have any and all data—such as saved text messages or incoming calls—from the phone that will potentially help us find the Israeli goddess. Hopefully, she's fully in tact, instead of lying in pieces on the floor somewhere.

"Why, Ziva? Why didn't you just call me?" I hold out my own phone and takes pictures of anything that can be considered evidence, trying to keep my mind off of what is inevitably happening to Ziva Davíd.

-break-

"Miss Ziva," Dr. Owens purrs, drawing closer to her with the staff. "You never told me what your pretty little scars were from." He traces my jawbone, which causes me to flinch away from his touch; he taps the knee he had previously kicked. The slightest touch sends heat of pain through my cartilage and bones, which is odd.

_I did not think bones had nerve endings._ I stow the thought in the back of my mind, making a silent promise to ask Ducky upon my arrival back in Virginia. I do not allow it to even cross my mind that I may not make it back at all.

"I did not think that was a requirement for an undercover assignment, sir," I bite out, still staring at the staff.

"Oh, Lovely, it isn't. I guess I'd like to know what exactly I am dealing with."

Swallowing, I begin, "I was taken hostage." Dr. Owens lets out a bark of laughter. "I was held in Somalia for over four months."

"Somalia? What business would NCIS have in Somalia?" He polishes the golden ball with the lapel of his suit.

"I am originally Mossad. My father is the Director." My eyes never leave the brass, even when it is covered by the off-white rayon.

"Is he? Fascinating." I know that he does not actually care. "So you fight?"

I allow myself a glance at my knee. "When I am in one piece, yes."

"Oh, so, fighting right now would not be feasible?"

Shaking my head, I state, "Unfortunately for you, Dr. Owens, I find many things feasible when my life depends on winning."

* * *

I've paced the kitchen seventy-three times before Gibbs arrives. I've kicked the wall—and broken the heat-run vent—forty-two times. I've come close to punching the molding eighty-nine times. I'm so close to losing my grip on reality to the wrath I have boiling in my veins that I don't hear him enter.

"Sit down, DiNozzo," the Silver Fox orders, and I obey, perching myself on the edge of the cushion. "Tell me what you've got." Abby slips in behind him and down the hall to the dining room to set to work on Ziva's phone.

I consider everything that I've found so far. "Well, we got in a fight."

"That all?"

"No…" I mumble.

"Marines don't mumble, DiNozzo," Gibbs snaps.

"I'm not a Marine. I'm barely a Sea-man, who, by the way, we still haven't found." My voice is bitter and I immediately regret the tone. "Sorry, Boss."

"Rule Number Six." _Mm, Boss, you're forgetting Rule Number Eighteen._

"Right, Boss." Steepling my fingers, I stare straight ahead. "We were fighting, and I left, and she didn't try to stop me. I went and drove around for a few hours, then got a pizza in town, tried calling the house to apologize `cause I picked up her favorite pizza…I didn't get an answer." Sighing, I continue, "So then, I went to Wegman's and bought some paper towels and I saw a flyer for TJMaxx, right? So I went there, and I saw this necklace I thought she'd like, and came back here."

"Is there a point to this, DiNozzo?"

"Yes, there is. So, I called again, saying that I was sorry and whatnot…straight to voicemail. Didn't even ring. So I drove back here." I choke out my last few words, "And Ziva was gone."

Gibbs is silent, but mirrors my position. "Look, Tony," he finally says softly, "We're gonna find her. We did last Fall and we're gonna do it again. Got it?"

"Yeah."

But I don't, really. There's an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can't shake.

But, as if by reflex, I know what to do and start doing it.

_Hail Mary, Full of Grace…_

* * *

_Yahweh, please…please…_

I sit blindfolded, as though Dr. Owens knows the object of me watching his staff. "Beauty?"

"Mm," I utter, not a question or an answer, but just a soft sound.

"Beauty, I was thinking we'd like to play a game." His voice is husky and by my ear. If possible, his breath is hotter than before. I feel something fabric—covering something hard—brush against my leg.

"What kind of game." _We?_ "And who is 'we'?"

Several male laughs echo in the room. My stomach sinks. _No_…

One of them steps forward. "Y'all're bein' mean t'this hurr wuh-mun," a familiar voice grunts. "I want to see her face when I have my way with her." I swallow hard. Why has his voice changed? Where is his accent?

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," a younger man murmurs. "We shouldn't do this." My heart soars with the hope he is going to prevent this, but soon falls. "I agree with Bud," he states. "I vote nay to the blindfold."

The fabric over my eyes is ripped away, some of my hair with it. I am faced with four men, plus Dr. Owens. One of them is Buck's father. The other three are not familiar with me, but are wearing similar clothing to Dr. Owens; ivory suits, sateen ties, and silver shirts.

Glaring, I spit, "You look like a Barber's Quartette." The men look between them. "Barbershop," I softly correct myself, feeling my cheeks blaze in humiliation. They roar with laughter until the younger one from before—with a peach tie—kneels before me and places a gentle hand on my thigh.

"Ziva," he whispers. "Ziva, do you know who we are?"

I stare into his eyes, hoping mine convey appropriately the anger and hatred I have for them, but none of the fear. "You are bastards, keeping me in a basement against my will, preparing to do wretched things to me because you like feeling empowered. You are pigs. You ar—" A swift blow to my cheek forces me to fall silent, my face smarting with pain.

"No, Ziva." Someone who once seemed so _potentially_ kind is now disgusting and crass. "We are LINAS." I raise my eyebrows in confusion. "Love Is Not A Sin."

"What is this LINAS?" I inquire, repositioning my arm to be more comfortable within the ropes binding me to the chair.

"LINAS is—" he begins, until Buck's father pipes up,

"—an organization that re-empowers us men in the world. Women fucked things up the first time, with the prohibition shit and the Rights movements." Snorting something out of his palm, he sways and then laughs, "We love women. They love us. So why can't we show them any damn time we want?" I cringe at his words. "They learn to enjoy it. That's all that matters."

Peach Tie lights something that looks like a joint. "My name's Chris. I'm Dr. Owens' son." Chris points to a man with a lime green tie. "That's Howard." He has dentures that keep falling out, a balding head, and sagging chin. A man with a purple tie steps forward and bows his head. "He's John." Then, a man with a yellow tie steals the joint from Chris. "That's Albert."

I stare at Buck's grandfather. "Who are you?" I murmur acidly.

"Matthew Conoghey," he replies through beautiful white teeth. "Pleasure to meet you."

"What are you _doing_? Why me?" I ask, as though they will actually tell me. Chris laughs. He is obviously the spokesman for this LINAS.

"Oh, Ziva. Beautiful, sexy, perfect Ziva," he answers debonairly. "You have so much to learn tonight."

Dr. Owens looks up. "You know, Chris didn't believe in any of this when he first found out. He was actually against it. But he learned, too. As did Albert, then Howard, and then John, after him."

"How did you 'learn'?" I ask, my voice wobbling slightly.

"Watched." Chris shrugs, then takes a long hit on the joint held tightly between his forefinger and thumb.

"So it is a cult, then?" Peach Tie leers in my face. "A big, disgusting cult that has little to do with love and all to do with rape?" I turn my head to Dr. Owens. "I certainly hope you are happy with what you have taught your son, Dr. Owens."

"Oh, I am," he grins. "I most certainly am."

_The nightmares begin now._

* * *

"…so in a nutshell, I ripped all of the info we need from the CPU and memory of the phone. I found all of her missed calls. Ten from Tony, four from me, and two from you, Gibbs," Abby rambles, just as she has been since she called us into the dining room a big past midnight. "And I found a saved text that she never got to finish." She hands the phone to me and my breath catches.

_tony i m srry. pls come bck now something is _

Gibbs takes one look at the screen and shoves it back to Abby. "What's the rest of it supposed to say?"

Abby shrugs. "Sorry, Gibbs. Your guess is as good as mine."

"Well, can you figure it out?"

"Nope. The only person who knows is Ziva." The strength that had adorned Abby's face before—and that had emanated off of her entire body—was nowhere to be seen. She throws herself into Gibbs' arms and wails, "What if she's deh-heh-hed?"

"She's gonna be fine, Abs. Just fine." He gives her a moment to collect herself and she soon releases him. Though her cheeks are streaked with tears, she sniffs loudly and continues.

"The text was auto-saved at five-thirty tonight." Setting the carefully reconstructed phone down on the table, Abby pouts at us. "That means that, if we assume from the hurried and non-Ziva-like speech of the text that she was in trouble of some kind, the kidnappers broke in around that time."

"That's good work, Abs." Gibbs places a gentle but grateful kiss on the Goth girl's forehead and sweeps from the room. "DiNozzo, get on the phone. You know who to call."

_I do?_ Oh. I do.

I get out the phone book and flip to the 'S's, quickly dialing the number associated with the rectory. "Hi, Father MacGregor? I…have something to confess."

* * *

_A/N: EEK. Okay, so, I already started Chapter 25. **::smiles warmly::** You should have it by the end of this week, time and schoolwork permitting. I hope you enjoyed it. It was really difficult writing about LINAS, and even thinking of it ... EEP. I hope I conveyed the right sense of ... well, whatever it should be. Fear? Disgust? Chill? Whatever it is, I hope I wrote it alright. Reviews welcome! **::waves::** Bye!_

_PS: Remember to watch NCIS on CBS at 8PM EST! -Vance, who is absolutely nowhere to be seen in this episode...  
PSS: Yeah, Leon? And why would they wanna do that? -G  
PSSS: Because he's flyin' like a G6! Oh, right Boss...Confessing... -T  
PSSSS: Can someone come get me now? Please? -Z_


	25. Broken

_**This is an Authors' Note.**_

_Hi…After posting Chapter 24, I received an anonymous review. My stomach fell. I had offended someone and I felt awful. I was near tears because I felt so guilty. Here is the review, and hopefully, if they haven't written me off completely as the Worst Author on …she may see this._

"Seriously i'm done with your story. You guys are freaks. Is it exciting to you ? Have you ever been raped, i don't think so ? Why do you people need to do this in like every story ? What is wrong with you ?

I don't care if Ziva is raped again or not in this story, it doesn't matter, what matter is that you had the idea and make us fear rape."

_Though it was an anonymous post, they did put her name in as Sara. So…this is my response, Sara._

_I'm sorry. I didn't ever mean for my story to offend you, or anyone else. There was an episode of Season 7 in which a woman was brutalized and raped, and Ziva was very passionate about finding who the offender was. She pretty much broke down right then and there in front of both Tony and McGee. I am only verbalizing what I took from that scene; the possibility that Ziva had been raped in Somalia. My goal was not to 'make you fear rape,' or write an 'exciting' story. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone or make some fantastical fan-trip out of such a serious topic. Though I have never been raped, my cousin was, and my best friend was sexually assaulted. The physical, mental, and emotional traumas done to both have not yet healed. I was only taking facts from what I have observed with those two women and their situations, not from personal experience. I can't even imagine what it would actually be like to be violated in such a horrible and violent way. I apologise publicly to you and to the rest of my readers for offending. I am so, so sorry. _

_I equally know that I am not supposed to post authors' notes as chapters, but I felt that this was another situation in which it was necessary. _

_I don't wish to spoil the ending, but know that Ziva was never going to be raped again. Never. I couldn't ever do something like that. I know that it makes me the worst author in the world to disclose the ending to her story._

_But, I'm discouraged and I've gotten so many reviews of chapter twenty-four that ask me whether I'm going to 'rape' her again or not. No. Nor did I ever __**want her to be.**__ I promise. I'm so extremely sorry for ever inferring that I would have the members of LINAS do horrible things to Ziva. Although life is full of challenges and horrors—perhaps it's the over-watching of __Law and Order: Special Victims Unit__ that puts these plot-lines into my head in the first place—I could never create such a horrific nightmare-life for Ziva. _

_If I have offended you…please give me a second chance. See the story to the end. I'm so sorry. __**::frowns::**__ I'm angry with myself for letting it even sound like a rape story. This is simply not the case. I'm a sensitive and over-analytical person. I overthink and get hurt easily, especially when it comes to my writing. So know that your words, Sara, definitely hit home. I'm so very sorry for hurting and offending you and anyone else out there who silently left the fic. As I said before, it was never my intention. _

_Thank you, to those of you whose support has not wavered._

_Sincerely, Kathryn._


	26. Something to Live For

_A/N: I hope you all read Chapter 25. It wasn't technically Chapter 25, but the number, yeah, it would really help you to read that. The basis of it was not to bash 'Sara.' Not at all. It made my heart ache to see some of the reviews on that A/N that were saying mean things to her. My best friend stated that, obviously, she was going through something. It isn't my place to judge. However, I can't lie to you, so I'm going to tell you straight up that I definitely considered posting a chapter that said the following:_

"Father MacGregor came over and he said a few prayers and then Tony miraculously thought to look in the basement before anything could happen to Ziva and he said he loved her and then Gibbs shot Dr. Owens and Abby sprayed mace and Tony wore a respirator mask and untied Ziva and they all escaped and they went back to Virginia and lived happily ever after, goodbye."

_However, that would have been unfair, and don't think that this A/N is a preview of what happens. I've already told you in the previous A/N chapter thing that Ziva isn't raped. I repeat. __**She is not raped**__. Emphasis on the words __**Ziva**__, __**not**__, and __**raped. **__So, let's commence._

* * *

"May I ask who this is?" Father MacGregor murmurs sleepily.

"It's David Stadelvard, Father…I'm sorry for calling so late," I reply, cursing myself inwardly. "I was…we're having some trouble and you're one of the few who can help us."

There's silence on his end for a moment before he states, "How do you mean? What kind of trouble?"

"Father, I…I lied." Abby watches me from her side of the room, curiosity pouring from her green eyes. "My name is Anthony DiNozzo, and I'm a Federal Agent for NCIS. My partner, Ziva Davíd—she went by Ana Stadelvard for this assignment—has gone missing, and … our boss was wondering if you…"

Father McGregor softly chuckles before murmuring, "It's okay, Tony. It was an occupational demand. You're forgiven." I let out a sigh of relief. "However, this kidnapping business you mentioned—when did that happen? And how would I be able to help?"

Groaning, I reply, "That's a good question, Father, and I don't know the answer to it, other than the facts. Ziva disappeared around five-thirty this evening; there's evidence of forced entry, and her phone was smashed on the ground."

"Religious crime?" he asks through a yawn, though I know it's not out of boredom. I sympathize with him as I look at the grandfather clock in the corner of the parlor. It's only a little after midnight. "Or is it something else?"

I shake my head, ignoring the fact he can't see it. "I don't think it has anything to do with her being Jewish, Father, no disrespect. I just…we knew we were made. We were under the impression we could pretend to not know, and catch the guy in the act."

There is a rustle. "And you were wrong, I take it?" The priest clears his throat. "I'll be right over."

I give him the address of our house and, before he hangs up, I catch him. "Father, just so you know, none of us are really … religious."

"That's okay, Tony," he murmurs. "See you soon."

__

_Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…_

* * *

"Please, don't do this," I whimper, watching Chris run his hand closer and closer to my hip. "Please…"

He chuckles menacingly. "Oh, but Miss Davíd, how else will we get our answers?"

Shaking my head, I moan, "_What_ answers?" I have not been able to follow a single word the members of LINAS have said, and have answered their questions with an almost numb feeling in my head. What I gather is unintelligible; they work closely with a drug cartel out of Colombia, sending them intel and women from America in return for drugs, like marijuana and cocaine. Before they get the drugs, however, the drug lords 'test' each woman they are sent.

In the recent past, LINAS has kidnapped women and sent them to Colombia, only to find out their drug orders have been denied because the women have fought back too much. I am sitting here now because they feel I would be a good candidate. But first, before they can send me away, they have to break me down.

"So, Miss Zee-vah," Chris leers, his silver eyes twinkling predatorily, "How about we cut the talking and just go straight for the training."

"Or," Dr. Owens chuckles, "the _re-_training."

I drag in a shallow breath, praying that Tony and Gibbs come soon.

* * *

Father MacGregor sits comfortably at the island and rests his chin on steepled fingers. "You haven't heard from Ziva?" We all shake our heads. "And she wouldn't run away, you said?"

Gibbs laughs despite the solemn atmosphere of the kitchen. "Oh, no. That's not Ziva."

I nod in agreement. "She'd be more likely to run toward a fight than try to escape from one."

Abby looks up from where she's curled in a ball on the padded bench. "Except if it's a life or death situation," she comments before lowering her head again and heaving a sigh. "Come back, Ziva…"

The priest shakes his head at me. "Why did you ask me here, Anthony?" he murmurs.

"'Tony,' please…" I gently correct, and then answer, "To be candid, Father, I couldn't think of anyone else to call." Averting my eyes to the floor, I mentally will away his piercing—but understanding—brown gaze.

"May I ask you, Tony, what you fought about?" he asks after a while. I almost answer him, until I remember that Gibbs and Abby are still in the room. Glancing between them, I can only hope they get the hint. I want them to leave. Now.

Gibbs only raises an eyebrow at me, then swings down from his own stool. Collecting Abby from her bench, he leaves the room, shutting the French doors behind him. Father MacGregor looks at me expectantly and I let out a hesitant sigh.

"My boss doesn't know about any of this. Or, if he does, he does a really, really, really good job of hiding it," I begin, running an idle hand through my hair. "You're going to think it's inappropriate and irresponsible, but ever since Ziva started working with me at NCIS five years ago—nearly six, now—I've had this massive… 'crush', I'd guess you'd call it, on her." He gives me a small smile and I plow on. "But Gibbs has these set of rules. There's fifty of them. And Rule Number Twelve states, '_Never date a coworker._'

"That's all well and good, Father, and I agree, it's usually a bad idea. But Ziva … she's different. We've toyed with the idea in the past and flirted and when we went to Paris, a lot of stuff went down, and then I lost my dad about seven-and-a-half months ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Father MacGregor tells me sympathetically. "He's in a better place now, though, you know."

"Yep," I agree, my voice strained. I clear my throat and go on, "That doesn't make the pain go away, though. And the only thing that did, Father, was talking to Ziva."

"So there's trust between you." I nod. "That's very important in relationships, whether they're romantic _or_ friendly. And it's especially vital in the workplace, Tony. You're partners. You _need_ to trust each other."

"I know. And we do." Pausing, I take a breath. "That's why I have to find her."

There's a moment of silence and then he folds his hands in his lap. "Tony, let's say a quick prayer. Do you know the _Our Father_?" I nod again. "Okay," he says and begins the prayer. I recite it with him.

All while thinking, _We need to find her, God. _Soon, however, I realize I have begun praying, _God, we __**will**__ find her._

In a matter of moments, I am struck with the idea of going to Buck's house.

* * *

"Martina Jackson," I rasp, my side aching from where Green Tie hit me. It is easier for me to relate the members of LINAS to the color tie they are wearing. "What did you do to her?"

Each of the men looks at another and then they let out a collective laugh. "Oh, Beauty, you don't want to know that."

I pretend to consider this for a moment, then murmur, "I do, actually."

"It might scare you."

"I have heard and seen worse with NCIS. I will not be scared. Go ahead." Setting my jaw, I know they can see I am serious.

Green Tie looks at Peach Tie and then back at me. Peach Tie gives Green Tie a curt nod. "Alright," the latter states. "Martina Jackson…Well, she was a peach, wasn't she, boys?"

Matthew Conoghey snorts loudly. "Really, Howie? You think she was nice?" Spitting on the dirt floor, he says, "You obviously lost some brain cells last time. The bitch _ruined_ my nephew's life." He glares at me. "I don't know why women always need to do this."

"How did Martina 'ruin' Jackson's life?" I inquire.

"She wanted to have his goddamn child. She wouldn't let him work. She insisted they start a family," Matthew counts off. "Her mother lives—or lived, whatever—in Texas, and if that whore had gotten her way, she'd have seven grandchildren by now."

"You put Martina in a _mental hospital_. Why?"

"Because," Chris cuts in, "she deserved it. She had it coming. When she was sitting in this basement—in the same chair you sit in now—she resisted."

I shake my head, furious. "You did not think of letting her go? Respecting her dignity?"

"What dignity? She had an abortion."

I can feel my eyes flash. "_Not of her own choice!_" I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and then continue. "She wanted to have his children. Your nephew _forced _her to have an abortion." Matthew lets out a howl of laughter. I stare at him in disgust. "What."

"You think _Arnie_ made her get an abortion?" He shakes his head. "No, no, that one was all us."

"Pardon?" I ask, my voice dropping.

"She was almost two months pregnant, Ziva. We couldn't risk her having a child, especially if we were going to send her away."

"Is that why Arnie resented you? Why he left? Because you killed his baby?"

"I didn't kill a baby!" Matthew shouts. "It was _cells_, just cells."

"You are sick," I hiss. "All of you are sick." The part that scares me the most about this situation is the fact I will live. They will not receive their drugs unless they send me to Colombia. Perhaps if I comply…

"Ziva; beautiful, beautiful Ziva … are you that dense? We aren't sick," Dr. Owens murmurs. "I help the sick."

"You performed the abortion, didn't you?" I accuse, my voice hollow.

"Yes, I did."

"And when Lance Corporal Jackson confronted you about it, you threatened to kill him, did you not?" He only nods, a sickening half-smile plastered on his face. "Martina found out about it and there was an investigation. And then, you chose to send her away and had to 'train' her … she escaped, though, right? And was so traumatized that her schizophrenia got worse …"

"Ooh," Chris coos in mock-awe. "NCIS does research."

I snap my head around to look at him. "Yes, we do. And they may not find me here, in this basement, but they _will_ find me someday."

Yellow Tie lets out a haughty bark of laughter. "The men in Colombia keep rather tight grips on their ladies, don't they, Chris?"

"You obviously don't know my boss." I have to steady my own voice, but I know that my team is on the way. They have to...

* * *

When we finish praying, Father MacGregor suggests I go discuss my plan with Gibbs. When I do so, my boss gives me the typical 'look', which of course tells me to call the local police. Within fifteen minutes, three unmarked cars are at our house, and then a van parks on the opposite side, a SWAT team safely inside. So much is happening, so quickly, that I am pleasantly surprised when I feel Abby wrap her arms around me from behind as I stand on the porch, watching everything play out. We stand together, enjoying each other's embrace, until Gibbs bounds up the steps.

"Get your gun. We're going in," he orders softly, squeezing past us to retrieve something from inside the house.

Abby gives me one last squeeze and I sprint down to my car and grab my gun. I slip my holster over my shoulders and a bullet proof vest on over that. "Ready, Boss," I call as quietly as I can.

"Be careful!" the Goth girl demands from her post before she runs back into the house and watches the proceedings from the front office window.

As Gibbs and I climb into his rented Dodge Challenger, I remember when I started working at NCIS, Abby was the first person I made friends with. I mean, there was Viv Blackadder, sure, but Ducky was always so enthralled with her and she was always so determined to stay away from him … And Gibbs was very good friends with Ducky already. Unless I'd wanted to start making friends in the Personnel office, which I hadn't. Abby and I had clicked almost instantly.

She'd also asked me out for dinner on several occasions. Once when we had a case with Commander Rabb, a JAG on the USS _Seahawk_, and then numerous times before that. I never took her up on them, other than the first time when she took me to a vampiric club, and that had scared me. So from then on, I politely refused, partly because of our past date, and also because I knew that there was someone waiting for me, or someone I was supposed to meet someday. When I'd met Jeanne, I had obviously assumed that she was that woman. Now that I've met Ziva, though … I regret every day I spent away from her. And now, who knows if we'll find her.

As we pull up in front of the house, not in the driveway of course, but creating a barricade in the road, my stomach tenses like it always does right before a bust. But this time, the stakes are higher.

_We're coming, Ziva. Stay strong._

* * *

"You disgust me," I spit, as Chris comes forward, unbuttoning his white slacks. Glaring at Dr. Owens, I ask, "Why all the names? Dr. Peters and now Dr. Owens?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

"Why? Why don't you know? Why can't you just answer me?" My nose flares noticeably and Chris chuckles. "Don't laugh. You'll see soon enough that my team values me enough to come save me."

"No, they're coming to save the Ziva they remember from a while ago. When we're done with the retraining, you won't be _that_ Ziva."

Green Tie walks around to behind my chair and gently sweeps my hair over my left shoulder. I tense and he squeezes the pressure point on my bare shoulder, drawing a hiss from deep within me. "She's ready. Go for it."

"Does this," I bite out through gritted teeth, "make you feel like men? Really? This is not a sin? Where I come from—the _normal_ part of the world compared to this Hell—this is _not_ love. This is rape. This is a _crime_."

"It's your fault," Chris tells me, laughing. He runs his hand gently across my face. Any other year, month, or day, I would have agreed with him. But now it is different.

"No," I say icily, "This is _not_ my fault." I am rewarded with another blow to my cheek.

"Then we should make this fun, hm? Since you're here voluntarily?" A sneer spreads across his face.

I gulp as he grows nearer still, and jump when the door is broken down and I hear Tony shout, "Federal Agents! Step away from the chair!"

"Tony," I warn, watching Dr. Owens reaching into his pocket, "he has—" I am cut off by a gunshot from Gibbs' gun, which disarms the doctor and causes the White Suit to fall to the ground, clutching his hand.

"Anyone else want a go?" my partner warns, not looking at me. "Good." He gestures for anyone else behind me to enter the room.

It seems far too simple. I find out why, seconds later, when Matthew draws a knife from behind the water heater. Tony is flung to the ground swiftly, with the knife sticking out of his vest. Another gunshot and Matthew slumps onto the floor beside him. I am silent through it all, through to when Tony has removed the knife, cut through the ropes binding me to the chair, and picked me up to cradle me in his arms. As he carries me up the stairs of the storm cellar's outside entrance, I bury my face in his neck.

He sets me down in the back of the ambulance sitting outside and says nothing, looking me square in the eyes. When I do not offer any words but my lip trembles, he stoops down and hugs me, pressing me into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around my shaking body, and not letting go until he thinks perhaps I am okay.

I am not. A tear runs down my face.

"Ziva, what did they do to you?" I shake my head, meaning that they did nothing to me per se, but I know that he takes it as though I do not want to discuss it. "This is important, Ziva. I need to know."

"They did not hurt me."

"Your cheek is raw."

I ignore what he has said, my mind focused on the possibility of what they could have done with Dr. Owens' walking stick. "He had a staff."

"They didn't…"

"No. They didn't. They didn't have a chance."

"Oh."

I look up at him with half lidded eyes, exhausted. It is, after all, three in the morning. "Tony, thank you."

"What for?"

"Saving me."

Tony takes my hand and kisses the top of my head, climbing into the ambulance with me and sitting on the passenger's bench. "Zeev, I will _always_ save you. Or at least, I'll try."

"I know."

As we drive away, I glance down at my ring and see that it has disappeared. He notices and reaches into his pocket with his free hand, then slips the ring on my hand.

"After all, Zeev," Tony murmurs, giving my fingers a soft squeeze, "I can't live without you."

_Just another day at the office,_ I think to myself, letting out a sigh. _Let the normalcy begin._

* * *

_A/N: Oh my goodness. What a ride this has been. I hope you all enjoyed it. Thank you all for your ongoing support, even during the rough parts of the last few chapters. Keep a lookout for my other future stories. I reassure you, no more rape. It may mention Somalia but it won't go as deep into description as this one did. As long as you have read this one…you will know my stance of what happened._

_It's been fun. Love, Kat._

**_Disclaimer: _**_I don't own NCIS, I don't own JAG, I don't own the Our Father, and I don't own Gibbs' car. _


End file.
